Silver & Gold
by Delila Shale
Summary: Argonian Schyre Redclay was just tring to escape a bounty placed on her head for a crime she did not commit. She didnt want to be Dragonborn. She didnt want to fall in love. But love, like fate, catches up with you when least suspect it. Farkas X DB
1. In the Beginning

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_Got overzealous and published my 1st chapter without running it by my "editor" AnonymousJ. Shame shame , shame on me. So here's the revised version…. We did some re-arranging to help with the flow of things, so if you are watching you may wanna re-read due to new info._

**Ok, first of all, this story will contain spoilers later on. I will try to notify in advance but just be forewarned. This is meant to eventually be rated M for content and language, so also be warned. I will attempt to stay true to cannon, however may have to go off on some tangents later on for story line purposes and while I will certainly be receptive to any constructive criticism , I'm probably not as well versed in the Elder Scrolls history and lore as others. Heck, I can barely remember my own country's history, let alone a fictitious one. Many of these moments actually have happened to me in game, so as far as I am concerned the story kinda writes itself, I just get to fill in the juicy parts. **

**I will be starting with an explanation and background as to how my character found herself in Skyrim since the story kinda glazes over that part. So, Farkas and OC will not meet till about midstory. Sorry, but intro just felt so…. lacking. Plus, I like character development. Or at least, what I think is character development. Not much of an author, so keep that in mind please. **

**I will appreciate every comment, however may not be able to respond due the fact that I work two jobs and am writing this in my very spare free time. I have put together a little playlist on play list . com under shanrelle Silver & Gold. Sadly, not all the songs I want are available there. I find a lot of inspiration through music and may occasionally make note of a particular song that inspired a scene just for fun or if you wanna listen to it while reading. The songs will be note like so: *artist-song title* _(*Halestorm-Innocence*) _for example.**

**And last but not least, I own nothing. I get no money for this, only the joy of using my imagination to bring a wonderful world even more to life. All ownership, designs and concepts belong to their respective owners. Sigh… even Farkas. Though I would own him if I could. ;D**

**I'd like to thanks my beta, AnonymousJ, for being a wonderful editor/consultant and all around friend who has to put up with my drivel. And the people who have commented on and faved my story. Thanks!**

Silver & Gold

A Skyrim Fanfic featuring Dragonborn Argonian Schyre Redclay and Companion Farkas

It's odd what goes through your mind when you are about to die. Long forgotten memories conjured as if by spell and tinged with regret from the choices made; realization of the future experiences soon to be lost forever; absurd clarity about the world around you. In the final moments before death you never feel so alive, as if your body wishes to drink in every moment, every sensation, knowing these will be the last. Schrye Redclay was hyper-aware of the sensations that bombarded her. All of the mundane discomforts that she had dully adapted to now came vividly alive and filled her with bittersweet musings. The fibers of the coarse rope binding her hands together were painfully digging under the small scales covering the joints of her wrists. The stench of the horses pulling the prisoner cart for several hours now overpowered the sweet aromas of the abundant plant life seen all around. There was a constant, rhythmic squeak of the wagon wheels providing a curious metronome to the nervous baritone prattling of the Nord to her left and the hysterics of the horse thief across from her.

Schrye glanced impassively at the blonde Nord droning on about honor and politics, obviously afraid of his own death. His apprehensions were not her concern. For all of their bluster about honor, the Nords she had encountered thus far were nothing but hostile to the Argonian merely because she was a different race. Not that she actually expected humans to be better than that- it seemed as ingrained in their nature to fear those unlike themselves as it was for her to breathe underwater. The man to her right was gagged as well as bound, and she wondered why this one had not received the same treatment. Pity, she mused, perhaps I can ask a guard to gag him as a last request. She chuckled at her inside joke, earning her an odd look from the Nord who finally abandoned his attempt at conversation.

The blonde man had been ranting the entire trip about losing the "Nord way of life" to Imperial rule. It seemed the Empire was a subject of broad contention for the Nordic country. As far as she could tell, the debate mainly revolved around the forbidden worship of Tiber Septim. Truly, she didn't see why the Imperial occupation bothered the native Nords so much. Under the influence of the Empire, trade was increasing and Imperial soldiers patrolled the roads keeping them safer than ever. Of course, the better patrols were why she had landed in this situation in the first place- Imperial troops had ambushed Schrye while she was trying to sneak across the border into Skyrim to escape from a high bounty in Cyrodiil. From the cooking kettle to the fire pit, she reflected.

Everything was happening now all because of one man. Schrye was easily one of the best hunters in the Redclay tribe, and it was this that caused her to be selected as a guide for Isael Archember. Isael, a brilliant Altmer alchemist hailing from Cyrodiil, was obsessed with the Hist and the potential properties it had as an alchemic ingredient. Her people guarded their sentient trees well, and the only reason that the snotty High Elf was allowed to gather samples of the tree sap was because his potions had saved many lives given the prevalence of disease in the swamps. While the native Argonians were resistant to disease, outbreaks still occasionally occurred in the smaller tribes, especially during the flood season when mudcrabs were most active.

Disease was not the only danger in Black Marsh, especially dangers posed to the Other races. Fleshfly swarms feasted on the soft tissues of Others, and Hackwings and Swamp Leviathans patrolled the stagnant marshes. As lead hunter, Schrye was charged with escorting the golden skinned elf to the Hist grove and ensuring his safety. In theory, it was a simple task. However, theory and application tend to be different matters all together. Isael was an Altmer to his very core, and his fussy nature was off-putting to even the most patient person. When he wasn't complaining about how muggy, wet, hot, humid or smelly it was in the swamp, he was griping about the quality of food and water brought along for the trek. Schrye was surprised he didn't ask her to carry him on her back so he wouldn't get his feet wet.

Traveling with this Other did have some benefits, though. In true alchemy-enthusiast fashion, Isael was eager to parade his knowledge about various properties of several of the native species. Well, verbally, if only to enhance his feeling of superiority. Touching his books, calcinator, and mortar and pestle were out of the question for fear they may somehow become contaminated by her touch. Schrye found herself unusually fascinated by the various applications a single ingredient could have. One element could heal just as easily as it could kill, depending on the catalyst used. On her nightly watch, she would sometimes "borrow" his alchemic books and study them by the fireside, poring over the information enthusiastically. The only aspect of alchemy that she balked at was orally sampling some of the raw ingredients to learn their properties. Some were… unsavory to say the least. She was more than queasy when Isael sampled some digestive acid of the massive rootworm they rode within as the creature carried them towards the Grove. "Fascinating," he said, right before he turning a lovely shade of green that would make even the most humble Argonian envious and letting loose the contents of his own stomach straight back into the bowels of the rootworm.

They set up camp a respectable distance from the Grove, leaving the bulk of their supplies behind and trekking along the winding path to the Hist. The Grove stood in dignified solitude on a small peninsula surrounded by murky waters. The noticeable lack of other flora and fauna gave one the feeling that very swamp itself revered the sacred trees. Upon entering the Grove, Schrye approached one of the oldest Hist and laid her hands upon its withered bark in ritualistic communion. The twisted giant received her graciously as she silently communicated their intentions in being here, much less with an outsider. Isael didn't realize how much danger he was in simply by being present. While most Others viewed the Hist as little more than vegetation, in truth the unique trees possessed cunning and almost ruthless natures that kept even the local predators at bay. Being allowed to even set foot on such sacred ground was a high honor; thankfully this was not lost on the unusual guest. The normally high-strung Altmer was surprisingly reserved during the communion, though Schrye could sense him bubbling with excitement at the prospect of reaping the reward of this journey.

Schrye stood guard warily as Isael took a dull knife and gingerly scraped some of the amber colored sap into a vial. Not only was she monitoring the elf's action, she was watching for any unexpected behaviors of the Hist itself. Though it consented to having its sap harvested, she would not put it out of the realm of possibility that the Hist might make a small demonstration to teach the elf just what he was receiving his gift from. The Hist were not malevolent by any means, but they were also not domesticated. The Hist were used to commanding respect from any creature that would dare set foot in their domain, and as learned as he was, the Altmer was still basically ignorant of this. Schrye was charged with his safety though, and on her clan's honor she would have to defend him, regardless of how much she might agree to the necessity of him being taught that basic lesson. The collection went by without incident though, and the moment it was over Isael practically bolted out of the Grove, eager to reach his various instruments and tools that Schrye had been forced to haul with them the entire time. Schrye reached the edge of the campsite just as he had finished dumping the contents of one of his packs all across the clearing. It was then that Schrye noticed that she wasn't the only recent arrival: the massive head of a swamp leviathan was rising from the shadowy depths focused on the distracted Altmer.

Schrye barely had time to nock an arrow before the leviathan was upon Isael. Leviathans trap their victims in the coils of their armored serpentine bodies and submerge their prey, killing them by drowning or crushing. This predator had already tangled Isael in its coils and was dragging him below the murky water, so Schrye knew she had to act fast. She drew her bow back and loosed her arrow straight into the eye of the leviathan. The beast roared and thrashed in agony, flinging Isael further from the shore.

Schrye dove headlong into the water in a desperate attempt to reach him before the leviathan recovered. Thanking Sithis for her streamline body, Schrye cut through the water swiftly and grabbed the elf by the back of his robes, dragging him towards the shore opposite of the camp. As Schyre towed him past a group of mangrove trees, Isael suddenly started sputtering nonsensical sounds and flailing frantically, trying to escape her grasp. She nearly lost her grip on him, but her quick reflexes secured a new, tighter hold on the hysterical Altmer. "Quiet!" she hissed, glancing back to discover the source of his panic: the leviathan was cutting a path in the water, barreling straight toward them. Thinking quickly, Schrye shoved Isael, propelling him towards the interwoven roots of the nearest mangrove, and turned to face the gaping maw of the leviathan. She drew her dagger from its sheath and plunged beneath the water, hoping to draw the beast's attention away from the elf.

On land, Schrye was at best mediocre with melee combat. It was one of the reasons she preferred using stealth and her bow- if she could kill an enemy before it even saw her, well… dead things didn't pose much of a threat. Beneath the surface of the water was a different story altogether. On land her movements with a blade were clumsy and awkward, but underwater she was as fluid as the liquid itself. She artfully dodged the serpent's attack and plunged the dagger into the side of its neck, driving it in up to the hilt. Leviathan scales are thick, and only blind luck could have guided the strike to be instantly fatal. Unfortunately, this was not her lucky day, and Schrye's only weapon was now firmly stuck in the creature's muscular neck. As she tried to free her blade the leviathan spun, and its barbed tail struck Schrye with such force that she was launched out of the water. She crashed against the trunk of the mangrove tree that was sheltering the hysterical High Elf and fell in a heap between its massive roots.

Schrye groaned and saw that half of her vision was blinded by blood pouring from a deep laceration above her left eye. With her good eye she sought out Isael to warn him, only to find him swimming frantically away. She untangled herself from the mess of roots and suddenly came face to face with the leviathan's one good eye mirroring her own. She froze; her muscles taut and ready to spring when the beast would lunge at her. Fortunately for her, its massive head swung away, obviously more interested in something else. Unfortunately for Isael, that something happened to be him.

Sensing his impending doom, Isael panicked and was more flailing than swimming towards the shore. Leviathans hunted not primarily by sight, but by sound. Their keen ears could hear the echoes of a struggling fish for miles underwater. The Altmer's spastic thrashing must have sounded like a slaughterfish having seizures for the beast to complete disregard the bloodied Schrye in favor of the tastier-sounding prey. As it passed, Schrye leapt upon its back, finding purchase on barbs that lined the creature's spine and scaled toward its head. She forcibly yanked the dagger out of its neck as she climbed, earning her a vicious shake. The serpent finally stopped its pursuit of Isael and focused on throwing off Schrye. It slammed into the mangrove trees and dove underwater, twisting and turning in a furious spiral to try and rid itself of the clinging Argonian. With a death grip on one of its spines, Schrye clung like a parasite as the creature began to tire. Finally, the exhausted serpent slowed and Schrye plunged the dagger into the yielding flesh behind the ear canal, penetrating the leviathan's brain and killing it instantaneously. With a final shudder, the great serpent sank lifelessly beneath the murky waters.

Bruised, battered, and thoroughly soaked, Schrye swam over to Isael and hauled him to the shore. With the elf safe from drowning, she laid on the lichen-covered path panting for a solid minute. Finally, with much effort she got to her feet and looked at the Altmer. The prim and proper high elf was on his knees face-down in the mud, trembling and clinging to the earth like it would disappear from beneath him at any moment. "Up!" she commanded, "We need to leave, now!" Her barked order brought him out of his shock and Isael's face reddened from the embarrassment of having a lowly Argonian order him around. His indignation easily showed on his face, but before he could voice his outrage at her tone Schrye cut him off abruptly, "Every predator within a two mile radius heard that, and now there is fresh blood in the water. I don't have the strength to fight off another leviathan or anything else that may come around. So move or die!" she hissed menacingly.

Schrye angrily wiped at the blood that kept obstructing her vision as she hurried toward the camp without looking back for Isael's reaction. She had already packed most of his belongings by the time the elf joined her. He actually stooped to help place the last several items in the pack when they heard a shrill shrieking in the distance. Schrye looked up in alarm and readied her bow while shoving the pack into Isael's arms. "What is it?" Isael asked quietly. "Hackwing," was her terse reply as she wiped yet again at the torrent of blood from her brow. "To the Void! I can't see!" she cursed. Prodding the indignant elf before her along the path, she raised her hand to her temple, fingers ablaze with golden healing light. Schrye didn't have the time or energy to heal it fully and knew it would scar, but at least they would survive the trek back. "You can use restoration magic?" he asked incredulously. She barely glanced at him, keeping an eye out for danger. "A little," she said, "the Nest Keepers, akin to your "midwives", all know minor healing incantations to help the hatchlings. This was to be my role before I became lead hunter, so I was trained in the basics. I was never very good at it. Lucky for me, another Path opened before me… something I excelled at." She absently thumbed her bow before gazing at him meaningfully. "Lucky for you too, it would seem."

They passed through the rest of the swamp uneventfully. It wasn't until they were safely back in the bowels of the rootworm that Isael spoke again. "I never did thank you for saving my life," he commented. Schrye raised her now-scarred brow in surprise, "I didn't expect you to." "Good!" he nodded emphatically, "It's good that you don't expect additional gratitude for doing your job…properly." Schrye just smiled and replied, "No, that's not it. I just didn't expect it from you." Isael snorted in derision, but his gaze now held a new emotion: respect. He still didn't like her attitude, and it must have eaten him up to know that he owed Schrye his life for her risking hers to save him, but he no longer had any doubt about her skill. He seemed to appraise her in this new light as she stood vigilant near the mouth of the rootworm healing her wounds as they traveled. "Is it common for your kind to engage those… those…things?" he asked. "No," she simply stated. He seemed to realize the enormity of the danger they barely escaped, "So, if I had one of the other hunters with me…." He trailed off in mute horror, and Schrye answered matter-of-factly, "You'd be dead." There was no arrogance in her tone; she wasn't taunting him nor was she bragging about her deed. It was a simple fact: if she had not been the one to escort the Altmer, he would not have survived the journey into the marsh.

Isael was lost in his own thoughts for a long while; Schrye guessed that the close brush with death must have shaken him more than she assumed it would. When he did finally speak again, his voice contained an edge of panic that alerted her right away. "Oh! Oh Gods! I need an antidote quickly!" He was glancing confusedly around before settling his gaze on his large alchemic pack. Unsteadily and with shaky hands he crouched down and began fumbling with the clasps. Schrye approached warily, "What's wrong with you now?" The Altmer looked up at her with wide, fear-stricken eyes, "That water! My head went under the water. That water is infested with who knows what kinds of diseases and parasites. I must have swallowed some. I'd developed an upset stomach and muscle cramps a while ago and just realized how clouded my thinking is. I've contracted something, I tell you! I must prepare a cure disease potion immediately or it could be the death of me." He finally managed to open the pack, but sat there a moment staring at the contents before whispering in utter horror, "Divines save me, but I've forgotten the ingredients!"

Schrye suppressed the urge to sigh in exasperation; it was only hours ago that she had to save his life, and now her charge was in danger again. Isael was right though- the diseases in Black Marsh were sometimes dangerous even to Argonians, so a fastidious Altmer would stand little chance of surviving if a particularly virulent strain took hold of him suddenly. Schrye knelt down, grimacing, "Focus, Isael. Don't think about what could happen or what you're feeling. Think about your potion recipes. Now, you said you need a cure disease potion. What ingredients go into that?" Of course Schrye already knew the answers she was fishing for: vampire dust and mudcrab chitin. That was one of the few potions she had memorized because it seemed too useful to not know. A potion that could cure almost any disease would be invaluable anywhere, especially in a place with diseases that could wipe out entire clans in a season like it had last year. But she couldn't let on that she knew, or else he'd know that she was reading his books. The elf stopped his uncertain search through his pack, seeming to try to redirect his lethargic thoughts, "I… think I have at least one of the ingredients, but the other was something that is too abundant for me to have to carry." "How about you look it up in one of your books?" Schrye offered. Her suggestion was not well received; Isael just finished removing the heavy book satchel before he exploded, "Have you seen how many books I have? Do you know how long it's going to take for me to find a single recipe? I could be dead by the time I find the recipe and ingredients!"

The elf's impassioned outburst only made his condition worse though. Isael started tilting his head as if dizzy, his eyes unfocused. He reflexively clutched onto the satchel as a source of stability, trying to steady his spinning world. In a weak voice, he murmured, "Stop the worm and find the ingredients. I don't have much time." He then slumped over, his fingers in a death grip on the book satchel under his chest. Schrye shook him calling, "Hey! HEY!" but the elf didn't respond. She touched the pulse at his neck and felt a rapid heartbeat. His temperature was naturally warmer in comparison to her own cool-blooded body, so she couldn't tell if he was running a fever or not. At least he isn't dead yet, she thought. Schrye issued the command to the rootworm to stop moving and carefully poured out Isael's alchemic ingredients to see what was available. It would be easy enough for her to find a mudcrab outside, but if he didn't have any vampire dust he would be done for.

Luckily the elf's memory served him well this time, because Schrye did find the rare ingredient. Isael's alchemy books contained very meticulous notes on the identification of the various ingredients, especially how to tell the difference between ingredients with similar properties such as the salts and powders. Schrye carefully set the vampire dust aside next to the tools she'd need to mix and prepare the concoction. Moments later she was outside of the rootworm and kicking through the shallow water trying to stir up a mudcrab. It took a couple minutes, but one of the ill-tempered creatures rose to challenge her. Thankfully it doesn't take much finesse to slay a mudcrab, and after a couple dagger strikes Schrye had a fresh supply of chitin to pulverize.

Upon returning, it dawned on her that she was about to make her very first potion. A thrill of excitement went through Schrye at the prospect, but she schooled her emotions; her client's life was in peril at the moment, and she couldn't be careless with this. As she tore apart the mudcrab to acquire the chitin, she spoke aloud toward the elf, "I don't know if you can hear me, but I got your ingredients. Do you want to come over here and make it yourself, or do you want me to prepare the potion? Just lay there quietly if you want me to do it." Isael didn't register that he even heard her- his half-lidded gaze seemed fixed in one spot and his breathing was short and shallow. Schrye waited only a short moment before continuing aloud, "Alright, I'll take that as a yes." She prepared the ingredients using the meticulous methods described in the books, and after a few minutes was collecting the finished potion in a vial. The whole event passed by in an excited blur for Schrye, but now the true test of her learning was at hand: whether or not the potion she crafted would save his life.

Schrye crept toward the hunched figure of Isael and grabbed his shoulder to lift him upright. "Hey, wake up," she said firmly, "you need to drink this now." Isael slowly lifted his head and opened his hand to take the vial from her. She placed the tube in his palm and he gently touched the rim to his lips, quietly breathing as if gathering his strength. Schrye watched him tensely, but just as she was about to intervene and tip the vial, Isael delicately tilted the container and tasted the fluid. After a short moment he finished lifting the tube and smoothly drank down the potion. Schrye watched him anxiously searching for a sign that he was recovering. The Altmer turned to her with a steady gaze and commented in his normal tone, "That not only smelled but also tasted like a cure disease potion. I did not have one of those potions already prepared. You used my tools."

Of all the ungrateful! Schrye braced herself for his inevitable tirade as she defended herself, "I had no choice. You had fainted, and I didn't know if you were dying or not. It was an emergency." Isael wiggled the empty bottle between his fingers, "Not only did you use my tools with the barest modicum of competence; you successfully created a potion using an ingredient not readily available in your homeland." Schrye felt uneasy at the direction the conversation was going and tried to deflect it, "With how much you complain, I wonder if you wouldn't be happier if I did nothing to save you. Just be glad your life is no longer in danger and leave it at that."

"My life was in no danger this time," was the Altmer's easy reply. Schrye was about to protest, but instead she looked at him more closely: for someone who only moments ago was seized with symptoms that had him doubled over and addle-brained, he was certainly relaxed and canny now, almost downright smug looking. The realization came to her: "You tricked me!" she exclaimed. He smirked slightly, "It served a dual purpose: it's true that I was concerned I might have contracted something in that fetid water and wished to have that potion anyway, but more importantly I wanted to test your knowledge to see if you retained any of the information from your nights of stealing my books."

Schrye's crimson scales turned a dark burgundy from her blush of embarrassment and she replied gruffly, "I didn't steal your books. I only borrowed them." Isael fixed her with a pointed stare, "You may have returned the physical books each time, but you did partake of knowledge that I did not choose to freely share- knowledge that someone in my position would normally be well compensated for providing." Schrye was about to protest that the knowledge is what enabled her to save his life, but she quickly recalled that it had all been a ruse on his part. The look of triumphant satisfaction on his face was too much for her to bear, so Schrye quickly stood and walked the short distance away to calm herself and get the rootworm moving again. She didn't like being made a fool of, and if she faced him right now she might say or do something she'd regret.

What came from him next caught Schrye off guard, momentarily interrupting her indignation; Isael mentioned in an off-handed tone, "Once we return, I must travel to Bruma in Cyrodiil for more supplies. The road is long and riddled with bandits. I could use someone as skilled as you are to make sure I arrive there in one piece." Schrye turned and looked at the elf incredulously. "Surely you jest now," she replied, crossing her arms defensively. When he didn't respond she continued, "Putting aside your arrogant assumption that I would want to work for you after you deceived me, why would you hire me again?" Isael laced his fingers together and spoke evenly, "I need someone to escort me to Bruma. You've shown yourself to be quite…" He hesitated before finding a suitable word, "…capable." He pursed his lips for a moment and then continued, "I can make it worth you while." "I don't want your gold," was her immediate reply. No amount of money is worth putting up with him for weeks on end, she thought. "Fantastic!" he replied with too much enthusiasm, much to her annoyance, "I wasn't offering. What I AM extending though is something of great interest to you."

Isael opened his book satchel and brought forth one of his great tomes, gently touching its cover with an earnest look on his face, "The fact that you were able to correctly brew that potion from memory demonstrates you have potential. Well, not as much as I did in my youth, but potential nonetheless. Here is what I offer. Room and board at any inn we stay in, meals, and training in alchemy as my apprentice. In exchange, you protect me from the hazards of the road until we reach my dwelling in Bruma. The trip will take three months if we make good time. By then you should have at least an apprentice level competency in alchemy. Whether you choose to stay on afterwards or forge your own path will be up to you."

Schrye was silent for a long moment. There was nothing holding her to Black Marsh. She had no mate, no hatchlings, and she already held the highest title the clan had. She often felt there was no more room for growth on her Path here. Striking out on her own, even briefly, was a thrilling idea. Plus, there was this ripe deal to learn more alchemy in the process… "Agreed," she said to the elf with a curt nod, "with a few provisions. If we are in a dangerous situation, when I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked, no retorts, no hesitation. It may cost you your life otherwise." Isael opened his mouth to protest but Schrye cut him off, "NO questions asked no retorts, no hesitation, or NO deal!" Isael's lips became a hard thin line and his face reddened, but after a moment to calm himself he waved his hand dismissively, "Agreed."

It was arranged. Schrye gathered her few belongings, and with little fanfare from the clan she departed with Isael's small horse driven cart through the bogs of Black Marsh. Though hardly good company, Isael was true to his word and began instructing her immediately. She couldn't help but think he derived some kind of sick pleasure in watching her recoil from eating some of the fouler components along the way. He was adamant that it was entirely necessary to sample the ingredients in order to discover their properties, but she would rather just trust a book saying that the component did what it claimed to do. Almost every ingredient across Tamriel had been discovered already, and if she found something horrid that no one else knew about, well… life was meant to have its little mysteries. She was sent to fetch ingredients along the road while scouting ahead for danger. He drilled her nonstop on the properties and applications of components until she could recite them with ease. He refused to allow her to use his masterwork tools for practice, but when they stopped at Leyawiin to rest he purchased for her an apprentice level set of tools.

Schrye also kept her part of the bargain. She slinked silently ahead of the cart, artfully placing arrow after arrow between the eyes of would-be ambushers. Isael was never in any danger since she killed them before they knew of his presence. He even commented on how clear the roads were as they traveled through the Nibenay Basin. With each passing day, Schrye grew stronger in her new skill. Because she was immune to poison, Isael entrusted poison crafting to her for the various "clients" they met along the road. On nights when there was no village or inn to shelter them, she would hunt for their dinner. While they had little else to converse about besides alchemy, things eventually settled between them. She would even dare say that towards the end of it, she was almost fond of the fussy elf. His mannerisms and ego took some getting used to, but the exchange of mild slights made their interactions almost fun. She learned that most of his outrage was just for show, and in truth he could take insults and indignities with some humor, but she'd better be prepared to be put in her place at a later time. Not that he would be caught dead admitting it, but she was certain that in his own way he enjoyed their time together as well.

They arrived ahead of schedule: two and a half months to travel from Black Marsh to Bruma. Usually quite sparing in dispensing praise, Schyre was astonished when Isael half-muttered "good job" as they pulled into the city gates. As Schrye helped to unpack when they arrived at his home, he noticed that her normally deft movements were now sluggish and clumsy. Even her once bright scales had dulled to the color of dried blood. "Stop before you break that, you clumsy oaf!" he ordered as she was removing a particularly fragile piece of equipment from the cart. He stared hard at her for a moment and then asked crossly, "How long have you been sick?" Schyre blinked slowly; face impassive as if not understanding the question. It took several seconds longer than it should have for her to answer. "Not… sick," she labored. "Cold. Reptile… cold .. is .. dan…gerous. Slows... every...thing down."

It had been getting increasingly colder as they traveled farther north. Schyre had felt the chill, but as long as she was active or able to warm herself by a fire she was capable of ignoring the effects. Yet here frozen water fell from the sky and coated the ground. The wind cut through bone and marrow as surely as any blade. Though Isael had provided food and shelter for his guard, he gave no thought to warmer clothing. Clad in the thin leather armor from her homeland, the light-weight apparel allowed her maximum flexibility but offered no shelter from the arctic temperatures.

Isael huffed and turned his back on Schyre. Taking it as a dismissive gesture, Schrye gathered the package up with numb hands. She was more than a little surprised when he snatched the package away from her and plunked a generous handful of gold coins in her palm. Dumbfounded by the unusual gesture, she just stood staring at the coins until Isael irritably exclaimed, "Well? Are you just going to stand there like your brain has frozen over? I can't have you dropping my expensive things. Go get yourself a cloak or something. I'm going inside to start a fire and warm up. And don't dally! As soon as you get back I want that cart unpacked and my horse groomed and stabled." With that, he entered his home and slammed the door behind him, sending a shower of icicles cascading to the ground. A guard that had stopped to watch the exchange shot her a suspicious glare before resuming his patrol.

The gold cooling in her grasp, Schyre passed the gate to the Jerrall Mountains and approached the local tavern that sat juxtaposed from Isael's home. As she mounted the stairs, she noticed that the word Olav's had been hastily painted over and the weathered sign now displaying Jerren's Tap and Tack. There was a faint chime from a brass bell hung above the door and she let herself in.

Inside the small tavern, a few patrons gathered near the fire, clutching their drinks in worn hands as a Brenton busily cleaned the bar with a tattered rag. Lingering smoke from the fireplace filled the tavern and various forms of trinkets and merchandise occupied the dusty shelves that lined the square counter.. A black and white stripped Khajiit stocked the upper shelves, nimbly balancing on the edge of a stool. Peering thru the haze, Schrye recognized the Brenton as the owner and approached the bar. She rapped her frigid knuckles on the wooden bar top signaling her desire to do business. When he continued to ignore her she cleared her throat and knocked again, finally rewarded with an exasperated sigh from the man as he threw down his rag in melodramatic fashion and stomped toward her.

"Don't serve your kind here, lizard" he scowled. "Go to Riften with the rest of those sneak thieves and their little guild. I catch your fingers anywhere near my wears, by Azura; I'll turn you into a pair of boots."Schyre was stunned for a moment at the open hostility of the merchant then angrily plunked a few gold on the counter. "My gold's good as anyone else's. If you don't want it, direct me to someone who does!" she hissed.

The Brenton man was just opening his mouth to say something when the Khajiit leaped down next to him. With a graceful bow the Khajiit interjected, "Many apologies, friend. What my esteemed college meant to say is that I, Rajhiera, would be delighted to assist you in purchasing our fine wares." Giving the man a meaningful look the Khajiit then took the Brenton's place as the irate man stormed off. "You'll have to forgive Jerren," Rajhiera stated smoothly. "A few weeks ago some thieves broke in and made off with much merchandise. He's been on a tirade since then and anyone who walks through the door seems to be a suspect."

Schrye eyed the Breton warily and when he no longer seemed a threat began to peruse the goods on display. "What's all this about Riften?" she questioned while trying on a pair of worn gloves. The Khajiit's ears twitched forward as a large grin spread on the cat's face. "Oh, have you not heard?" he stated rather dramatically. "Riften is a city in Skyrim to the northeast about five days ride from here. Supposedly, it is home to the largest sect of the Thieves Guild. Very dangerous. And, so confident in their abilities that they trek miles across the tundra of Skyrim, past frost trolls and Imperial patrols, just to steal our humble wares." With that, the Khajiit let out a loud laugh directed at the Brenton who threw down the rag and headed upstairs.

Schyre had chuckled along but her mirth turned to frustration when she noticed that even with the gloves on she still could not feel her finger tips. Granted the warmth pouring from the hearth certainly helped, but Schrye was wise enough to recognize that it was the ambient heat from the fire affecting her, not the addition of clothing. Being cold blooded, she didn't generate any body heat and no matter how heavy the fabric, it would do little as insulation. Sighing she stripped the gloves off and continued to dig through the miscellaneous garments. She was just about to give up the search as fruitless when the Khajiit slid a plain silver ring across the counter towards her.

"I believe you will find this, most helpful." He said with a sly tooth filled grin. Schrye looked at the ring dubiously and after a few moments picked it up for closer examination. As it caught the firelight, I faint bluish sheen caressed the surface, like the edge of a bubble caught in the sunlight at the perfect angle. Magic, she recognized. Hesitantly, she slipped the ring on her forefinger, feeling the shiver of magic as it came in contact with her skin. Relief would hardly describe the sensation she experienced. Her entire body was instantly warmer, as if a faint barrier against the cold had been erected around her. The chill was still present, but it seemed slightly more tolerable and less numbing than before.

Rajhiera smiled, chuckling lightly. "Is good, yes?" Schyre could only close her eyes and nod, enjoying the warmth too much to fully respond. "Is Ring of Resist Frost. Of course, for 100% resistance, is very very much expensive and rare. This one offers 5% resistance. Will help keep cold from harming you. Is very popular among your kind this far north."

Schyre opened her eyes and peered warily at the Khajitt. As a hunter, she could smell a trap a mile away. This Khajiit knew she was desperately in need of protection from the cold and would be sure to take every piece of gold she had. Not that she had much. By her estimate, Isael had only given her about 300 gold so she'd have to approach this carefully if she was to purchase the ring at all. She acted disinterested and removed the ring placing it back on the counter and looked at a few more items. She finished scrutinizing some ugly leather boots, an assortment of cloaks, and some soul gems before coming back to the ring, almost as an afterthought. Nonchalantly, she offered the cat a ridiculously low sum for the ring, to which he countered. They haggled for quite a while finally agreeing on a sum of 280 gold. She used the reminder of the money to buy a woolen cloak to keep the wind off her and set forth from the shop back to Isael's abode.

Even the slight shielding from the bitter winter winds improved her speed and demeanor. After un-harnessing Saffron, Isael's bay mare, she was able to unload the rest of the cart and store the contents in the small shed attached to the side of Isael's home within about an hour. Securing the large padlock on the door, she turned her attention to the shaggy horse, which was tied to the hitching post outside. She deftly curried the mud from the mare's shaggy coat and cleaned her feet and then left her tied as she headed inside to check with Isael.

"Everything's unloaded," she shouted as she pushed open the heavy door. "I'm going to take Saffron to the stables and I….." Schyre's words died in her throat as her nostrils were assailed by an all too familiar smell. Blood. "Isael?" she asked tentatively as she took another step into the room. The logs in the fireplace crackled and hissed as she entered the central chamber. A great checkered wingback chair sat facing the roaring fire, Isael's hand in respite on the armrest. Leaving the door open, Schyre approached the chair her pace quickening in fear. "Isael?" she cried again louder her pitch rising as she rounded the chair.

Isael was slumped in the chair; head resting on his chest, the front of his robe was soaked in blood that ran in thin rivulets and dripped steadily on the wood floor. "Isael!" Schrye screamed, kneeling over him. She tried to staunch the torrent of blood seeping from his slit throat summoning her restoration magic to try and save him. Blood cascaded down her hands, staining her leather armor and giving her scales a slick wet look as the golden light from her healing magic reflected off it and the pupils off Isael's blank open eyes. She was too late. She could heal the living, but not bring back the dead. She removed her hands from his lifeless body and reached up to close his eyes. She didn't know him well enough to cry for him, didn't like him enough too, but certainly didn't want him to die. Not like this.

"Citizen?" boomed a voice from the doorway. Schrye jumped up startled to see two armed guards standing in the doorway. "We heard screaming and…." His voice trailed off as he saw Isael's lifeless body in the chair and when his gaze shifted to Schyre he and his partner drew their swords. "Stop right there!"

Schrye looked down at her bloodied hands; at the blood that now soaked her leather armor and caked under her scales and claws. She put her hands up defensively and backed away from the guards, "Wait! No, I …I was trying to save him! I didn't do this!"

"Sure," one of the guards said sarcastically. "I heard you arguing with him a few hours ago. What, did you get tired of him putting you in your place lizard? Decide to teach him a lesson? Can't say he probably didn't deserve it, that one, but can't have a murderer running lose. Now, come with us real quiet and we'll set you up with a nice comfy cell." They slowly started to circle around her, closing off her only exit herding her towards the stairs on the left side of the house.

Schyre's heart raced a mile a minute. She had no gold to pay the fine or even attempt a bribe and doubted that she would get little in the way of a "fair" trail. If she was lucky, she'd hang. If not, she'd rot in jail for the rest of her miserable existence. So she did the only thing she could think of at that moment. She ran. "Stop lawbreaker!" one of them roared as she nimbly dashed up the stairs to the second story with the guards in pursuit. She made it to what could only have been Isael's bedroom with its opulent and ostentatious décor and latched the door. Trinkets, vases and books went tumbling as she shoved over a heavy bookshelf to block the doorway just as she felt it shudder under the impact of the two guards.

They were calling for reinforcements now and Schyre knew she was running out of time. She opened the door that led to the balcony overlooking the front of the house and already see more guards pouring from alleys and the barracks like enraged ants from a disturbed nest. An arrow narrowly missed her head and lodged itself into the door jam behind her. She peered over the balcony edge to see Saffron still tied below. Without wasting another moment, Schyre vaulted from the railing landing square on Saffron's back. The startled horse squealed and reared snapping the reins that tethered her and bolted forward. Several unfortunate guards were bowled over and crushed beneath her massive hooves as she ran for the gate.

Above the cries of murder and arrows flying by she heard the distinctive metal clink of the portcullis counterweight dropping and the gate descending. Clinging to Saffron's mane, she urged the mare on; praying to Sithis as they barely cleared the rapidly descending spikes of the city gateway. Clods of dirt and snow flew as Saffron raced through the tundra, leaving the guards and Bruma far behind them. _(*Conjure one-Like Ice*)_

They rode north for miles through banks of snow and past frozen rivers, when Saffron's feet suddenly came out from under her and the mare landed heavily in a snow bank, nearly crushing Schrye as she rolled on her side thrashing and screaming. It was then the Argonian noticed the arrow buried deeply in the mare's flank. Calming the horse as much as she could, Schrye pulled the arrow out and smelt the tip. A well-known scent greeted her; deathbell blossom extract. Schyre glanced sadly at the mare that was now foaming at the mouth, her muscles twitching involuntarily. The arrow hadn't been meant for Schyre since most guards knew Argonians were immune to poison and didn't bother wasting their arrows. They had either meant to cripple her mount and collect her at their leisure or let her die from exposure out in the wastes. Probably the latter she thought.

Schyre knelt besides the mare and stroked her neck. The horse's eyes rolled back in terror as she struggled to get up to no avail. The extract was attacking the mare's central nervous system, slowly shutting down her organs so she would die a slow and agonizing death. Schyre cradled the mare's head in her lap. As a hunter she understood that death could be a blessing; a release from the pain of living and with silent thank you, Schrye slit the horse's throat with her dagger. In a matter of moments, the mare bled out and body began to cool in the now red snow. Schyre wasted no time butchering the carcass, working quickly to gather the hide and meat she would need for the journey. She had already determined her destination: Riften, across the border of Skyrim, where her bounty wouldn't follow.


	2. Everyone Dies

**Hello, all! 2****nd**** chapter. May wanna re-read the 1****st**** if you haven't already b/c I moved some stuff around. **

**Once again I own nothing and make (sadly) no money from this. Thanks for all the reviews!**

Helgen!" the Nord to her left suddenly erupted, jarring Schyre from her blood-stained memory. Schyre turned to see the looming solemn monument that was Hold Helgen. She mentally kicked herself again for getting caught. The journey over the frozen wilderness had taken almost two weeks, and the combination of sleep deprivation, exhaustion, and constant cold numbing her brain eventually took its toll. She had very little wit left after traveling in solitude over the icy lands, and she paid dearly for it by thinking she could sneak past the Imperials guarding the border. Her sour mood quickly turned to annoyance listening to the horse-thieving Nord across from her: the man was gibbering about how things are so much worse than he thought. Schyre thought him a fool. He had apparently not anticipated an execution at the end of this journey and was begging for his life. The Nord to her left silenced him, chastising him that everyone should face his death with dignity. Mentally thanking the man for the intervention, she impassively glanced at the faces of the villagers that came to watch their procession.

As they rounded the curve of the road, Schyre saw her final destination- Helgen Keep, an Imperial-controlled prison fort located in the middle of the village. She didn't have to know the history of the place to understand that it has a reputation for harsh treatment of prisoners. Being on death's door brought a somber smirk to her face. As a huntress, she knew death very well. It was amusing to think that the last few members of the Redclay tribe were so involved with the deaths of others. Years ago, her older nestbrother Veezara was born under the sign of the Shadow and was whisked away to the Dark Brotherhood right after his Naming Day. While she was hunting prey of the wild animal variety, he was hunting prey of the two legged variety. Head huntress and Shadowscale assassin… The Redclay's final generation was certainly blessed by Sithis.

Schyre thought fondly of her eggbrother. Even though she only spent a couple weeks with him, that time together changed the rest of her life. She could still recall the awe she felt when she first laid eyes on him as he returned home to answer the call of the Hist. Amidst the rest of her traditionally-garbed family members, he stood out wearing his black leather garments; they were like a perfectly fitted skin of darkness over his scales. It was he that had taken her aside and presented her with her first bow, a fine steel bow that she had used until her recent capture. He was the one that set her on the Path of the Hunter. Under his tutelage, she learned not only the proper way to use the weapon but also the basics of sneaking; how to keep a light foot, to minimize noise, and to blend in with her surroundings. Not that it was much of a challenge for her to blend in back at home- Schyre was born a vibrant red color flecked with gold and accented with smatterings of burgundy scales. The terra cotta clay surrounding the swamp was the perfect environment for her to disappear in, so long as one didn't peer too hard for the flash of gold. The golden highlights earned her the nickname "Golden Child," and Veezara took to calling her that as well.

She regretted not being able to see Veezara once more before she died. He was the only other sibling still alive; the epidemic took the rest of her family last season. More than that though, he was the only family member that Schyre really connected with. Despite the fact that he was quite serious and spoke little, she intuitively knew that he understood her as none of the others did. It was a bitter morning for her when the sun rose on the final day of his visit. Trying to keep her sadness at his departure hidden, she smiled and joked with him by asking if he was looking forward to getting back to the killing game of hunter and prey. He simply gave her a cold smile and replied, "Everyone dies." And just like that, he was gone.

Yes. Everyone dies. Truer words had never been spoken, and it appeared her time was at hand. Schyre and the other prisoners were marched out of the wagon and forced to stand in line while the Imperial guards called their names, sentencing them to death one by one for whatever crimes they had committed. A small group of people had gathered to watch the executions. When she was the only one remaining the guard called her forward, appearing flustered that she was not on his list and addressed her simply as "Argonian". His superior gave the order to kill Schyre regardless that she was not on their roster. It didn't matter anyways. All they had to do was check with the watch in Cyrodiil and the bounty on her head would have condemned her just as easily. The man with the list apologized and assured her that they would return her remains to Black Marsh. How thoughtful, she mused sarcastically.

The horse thief panicked and tried to flee but was shot dead before he traveled more than a few steps. The talkative Nord obsessed with honor was eager to meet Sithis and willingly gave himself to the headsman. As the axe descended, a strange cry reverberated throughout the valley and shook the ground beneath their feet. An odd sensation tied Schyre's stomach in knots. It wasn't fear, more like… anticipation. She wildly looked around for the source even as the commander called her forward. She caught a glimpse of something dark and massive in the sky darting behind the looming tower just as she was forced to her knees, her head thrust upon the chopping block.

Schyre smelled the coppery scent of the blood and felt the residual warmth on her cheek from the life lost only moments before. Her breath rattled, coming in quick pants as she stared up at the hooded executioner. As she watched the man ready the heavy weapon for another use, something in the background riveted her attention even more than the threat of imminent death. The dark figure she had seen coming over the mountain landed with a quiet thud on the top of the wall over them. Schyre's mind had already shut down her emotions in the face of death, so there was no disbelief or any other reaction to the sight of a living, breathing dragon. Its great claws grasped the stone ledge, crumbling them to powder under the enormity of its weight. The creature's massive horned head swung around, searching briefly before turning down and locking eyes on her. The headsman, oblivious to the newcomer right over them, lifted the axe to perform his duty. She noted the honed edge of the blade catching the sunlight as he brought it above his head for the fatal blow. At that same moment the dragon opened its mouth; she couldn't be too sure, but it almost sounded like the words of some sort of guttural language were being growled out. The sunny sky was instantly overcast with swirling black clouds, and just as the headsman started to bring the axe down, the world around her dissolved into booming chaos.

The executioner was sent flying somewhere beyond Schyre's vision and she was nearly knocked unconscious by the force of the sonic blast that came from the dragon's maw. As she shook her head trying to clear her blurry sight, an urgent voice called out, "Prisoner! If you're still alive, head to the tower!" Schyre turned her dizzy head in the direction of the voice and saw a fuzzy gray shape. She unsteadily got to her feet and started staggering forward. Bursts of orange light shook the ground around her. Hey, it's warmer, her addled brain supplied out of nowhere. When her vision finally cleared she saw why- fiery stones were raining from the roiling clouds above, and the dragon was flying in swooping arcs breathing flame over everything in sight. She sprinted for the tower's doorway and ducked inside just as the dragon flew by, narrowly missing her with a stream of fire.

Several wounded Nords had taken refuge inside the dark tower. She recognized one as the voice that urged her to the tower. He spoke to another Nord that was in unusually fine clothing, the one that had been gagged for the journey over here. The finely-dressed man, apparently a noble named Ulfric, stated that now was not the time to be awestruck by the dragon- they needed to escape. The underling, Ralof, spied Schyre and told her to head up the stairs to escape. She started following them up the twisting steps, and in the process remembered that her hands were bound. She was about to scream at them to untie her, but before she could utter a sound the dragon's head busted through the stone wall, destroying the stairs in front of her and showering them all with splintered wood and dust from crushed granite. The dragon retreated to no doubt wreak more havoc, but in the process left a gaping hole in the wall of the tower.

Separated as they were, Ralof suggested she escape out the hole and turned to join the other man above. Schyre stepped up to the ledge and peered down. A couple of the burning stones from the sky had crashed through the roof of the inn right next to the tower. The jump down was only about ten feet, but the walls were enveloped in flames. Schyre paused at the prospect of jumping into the unstable building. From the cold, pragmatic part of her mind, Veezara's words suddenly echoed: everyone dies. She hesitated only a moment more before strengthening her resolve. Not today, she decided as she leapt through the flames. The fire licked at her and heavily scorched her tail, but she cleared the distance. She landed with a grunt on the inn floor, nearly losing her balance since her hands were still bound. Well, she thought ironically as she dodged the blaze, I was complaining about the cold earlier...

She dropped through a hole in the floor to the ground level and exited the husk of the building. Just outside, the Imperial that had addressed her as "Argonian" was guarding a child and facing off with the great dragon that crouched on the ground. The creature turned its head toward them; Schyre already knew what was about to happen and was well behind cover before the Imperial could shout his warning to take cover. The dragon spewed fire at them and then launched itself into the air. The Imperial made a sarcastic comment about her still being alive and offered her to follow him to escape. Seeing as her hands were still bound, Schyre didn't feel like she was given much choice in the matter and fell in step behind the man as they ran. They dodged flames and weaved their way between damaged buildings toward another tower that was somehow still standing. They both froze in the shadow of the fort wall as the dragon suddenly landed in front of them, claws inches from her face. She held her breath for what seemed an eternity as the creature spat a gout of flame at the people unfortunate enough to be out in the open before finally taking flight again. Somehow, it failed to notice the two that were directly below it; Schyre was grateful for it.

All they had to do was cross one more clearing and they would safely be in the tower. As they were about to make a break for it, two other Nords, Ralof and Ulfric, crossed the expanse perpendicular to her path towards another tower off to the side. Ralof stopped midway, weapon drawn to cover the retreat of Ulfric from the Imperials. The man that Schyre had been following called Ralof a traitor for aiding Ulfric, but self-preservation overruled his impulse to stop the escape of the high-profile captive. The Imperial dashed forward towards his refuge and Ralof backed away to his own destination, briefly beckoning Schyre to follow him even as the Imperial called to her. By Sithis, she didn't care who she went with, as long as they untied her and gave her a bow! She ran towards the nearest human, which happened to be the Imperial, and followed him inside. No relief came when he secured the door behind them. The dragon could still be heard raging outside and the walls shook violently, raining down dust and pebbles on them. If they didn't move soon, these rocks would be their tomb.

The Imperial drew forth a knife and finally freed her from her bonds. He introduced himself as Hadvar while Schyre began frantically tearing through drawers and chests looking for weapons and armor. She was more than disheartened to not find a single bow, her search instead yielding imperial leather armor and a steel dagger and sword. She hastily donned the armor, but it was designed for a human, not an Argonian. It was ill-fitting and rubbed some of her scales the wrong way. She actually had to cut a slit in the toughened leather with her dagger for her tail to fit through. She sighed. It was practical, if not comfortable, and would have to do for the moment.

"You take point," she told Hadvar. "Close combat is not my strong suit." Surprisingly, the Imperial just gave a curt nod and unsheathed his sword, taking the lead. _Guess he must be used to taking orders_, she thought. Schyre followed behind, sneaking as best as she could in the unshapely armor until they came across some Stormcloaks, a group of soldiers opposing Skyrim's legion empire. Hadvar muttered that he hoped they would be willing to listen to reason and work together to escape, but from his tone Schyre inferred that he didn't expect as much. Sure enough, as soon as he came into view, the blue-shirted warriors assaulted Hadvar, attacking him even as the ground shook from another blow from the dragon outside.

I need to finish this quickly, Schyre thought, before the entire fortress comes down on us. Using the bedlam to her advantage, she slipped stealthily behind a Stormcloak engaging Hadvar. Thanking Sithis for the Nords' ridiculous passion for long hair, she grabbed the fighter's mane and wrenched his head back, exposing his throat. With the finesse of a seasoned hunter, she slit his throat with the dagger, sending a fine spray of blood in the air. The man dropped from her grasp, dead before he even hit the floor. The next opponent she faced off with was fully aware of her presence: a tall red-headed man with an ugly twisting scar that ran from his temple to his cheek. He brandished a large war axe and charged recklessly at her. _These Nords,_ she mused as she feinted to the side, _always so eager to meet Sithis._ The man stumbled to keep his momentum from sending him into the wall. Schyre was behind him in an instant, slipping her dagger under the leather tunic and into the man's kidney. He grunted before toppling over just as Hadvar finished the final one.

Further and further down they went with the dragon guiding their course by causing rock slides and tunnel collapses. As they rounded yet another corner to head down some stairs, Hadvar mentioned with a notable amount of disgust that they were about to enter the torture chambers, a room he wished they didn't have to use. The sound of battle suddenly caught their attention and Hadvar hurried the rest of the way. A few Stormcloak rebels had made their way here and were attacking the torturer and his assistant. Hadvar immediately joined the fray and within moments the imperial soldiers put down the intruders. The head torturer offhandedly thanked Hadvar for his intervention, saying that the dead Nords apparently didn't care for how he treated his guests. Hadvar informed the torturers that they needed to evacuate because of the dragon attack. Surprisingly, the men refused, saying that a dragon attacking was nonsense. Hadvar was just as bewildered at their ignorance and argued with them for a bit before giving up. Instead, he instructed Schyre to search for any useable supplies before continuing onward. She complied and searched the room, including a small knapsack next to a weathered table. As she removed the lockpicks, Schyre's eye caught sight of an unobtrusive black leather book sitting on top of the table. Embossed with a silver sign of the Empire, the book titled "Dragonborn" piqued her curiosity. As if on queue, the dragon roared above, shaking the tower to its foundation. Schyre quickly pocketed the book, hoping for some insight on killing the creature.

Leaving the two to their fate, they moved further and further into the bowels of the fort, until they finally came to another room. The underground passage opened up to an expansive cavern with a rushing stream that coursed through its center. Schyre's nostrils flared with a familiar scent but before she was able to identify it, she caught a glimpse of movement and signaled to Hadvar to take cover. A small group of Stormcloaks entered the cavern unaware of their presence. They argued amongst themselves, obviously lost and trying to escape the havoc just as Schyre and her companion. She darted a quick look around the corner and spied five large Nords headed their way. A large grin spread over her face as she saw two were armed with hunting bows.

She gestured to Hadvar, indicating the number of foes and weapons types and signaled him to advance. Hadvar drew his sword and charged down the natural bridge at the startled Nords while Schyre snuck around the back. The two armed with bows had just notched their arrows and began aiming at Hadvar when she struck. Using the terrain to her advantage, she slinked along the river edge and slashed the ankle of the closest one on the bridge. He let out a shriek and toppled to his knees as his tendons gave way only to be met with the ascending tip of Schyre's blade. The man was still gurgling as Schyre vaulted up the stairs towards the remaining archer.

The last archer trained his arrow on the Argonian and let it fly as she reached his dying companion. Schyre dived and rolled, narrowly missed by the arrow, snatching up the fallen bow as she tumbled. She came to stop near the far wall facing off against the archer. She immediately realized her folly. She was pinned with no chance to dodge another arrow. The lichen covered wall at her back blocked her escape and one of the three men engaging Hadvar had broken off from the skirmish to circle to her right. If she dodged right, she'd be met with an arrow; left, into the awaiting grasp of the axeman.

She searched the ground for an arrow within reach, only to see them scattered near the corpse of the fallen Nord. Something else piqued her interest while she scoured the cavern floor: pooling beneath the feet of the archer was a viscous iridescent liquid. She finally recognized the odor she had caught earlier: lamp oil. Thinking quickly, she head up her hands, bow still clasped in one, in a gesture of surrender. She slowly backed towards the wall, closer to the torch that was brightly burning in its bracket. She grinned sheepishly at the archer and shrugged. "No arrows," she said. "Don't suppose we could call a truce?"

"Not a chance, cur!" the Stormcloak growled, arrow still trained on her. "Pity." She said as she grabbed the torch off the wall and flung it at his feet. The archer's scream could barely be heard over the din of the fire. The flame consumed the fuel with such ferocity that both Schyre and the Nord wielding the axe had to shield themselves. Schyre scrambled towards the other body, grabbing the quiver and quickly slinging it over her back. Using the wall of fire as cover, she launched an arrow into the stomach of the backpedalling axe wielder. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as Hadvar finished the Nord he was engaging with and then beheaded him with one blow.

As the fire died down, Schyre and Hadvar looted the bodies for any useable items. She was more than irate that she had managed to only find a dozen steel arrows for all her trouble and a little more than peeved at the quality of the bow. The steel bow that Veezara had given her had been meticulously maintained and cared for. In sharp contrast, this hunting bow look like someone had slapped two pieces of lumber together with some sinew and had the nerve to deem it a bow. She clucked her tongue in disgust when she saw the minute stress fractures along the handle. Obviously, the bow was not being oiled or unstrung every night and the lack of care had taken its toll. _Nearly beheaded, attacked by a dragon, burned, and chased by overzealous Nords all while wearing crap armor and armed with an even crappier bow. Well, today was certainly shaping into a fine day_, she pouted. _What next?_

Sighing, she unconsciously rubbed the scar above her left eye. The mark the leviathan gave her only served as a constant reminder of her failure and she had taken up the gesture whenever feeling exasperated or particularly frustrated. "Let's go," she said to Hadvar as he finished looting a nearby body. They went down a narrow torch lit corridor and found a rickety drawbridge blocking their way. With a quick flip of the lever, the bridge descended with a heavy clank leading them into a twisting corridor riveted with fast running streams and rocky out croppings.

They came to a fork and after ransacking a corpse that had been left there to rot, chose the path to the right. Schyre noticed with growing unease that the spider webs got larger and more expansive as they moved along the tunnel. The passageway eventually widened into a cave laden with thick webs and hanging cocoons. Sure enough, Schyre got the chance to add giant spiders to her list of "things that went wrong today" when four of them dropped down from the ceiling. One of the hairy creatures spat a green fluid on her and leapt onto her. She managed to keep the crushing mandibles away from her face and she repeatedly stabbed into its soft underbelly. She had just kicked the dead thing off of her when another one grabbed her foot and dragged her towards its dripping maw. She viciously kicked out at the beast with her free leg, landing a solid blow in its eyes. The spider hissed as its prey fled and turned toward the second morsel that had been incapacitated by its brethren's venom.

Hadvar was down on all fours, desperately trying to crawl away from the remaining spiders. The venom that thoroughly caked his armor had sapped his strength and made him an easy target for the remaining insects. The largest spider pounced on him and as he waited for the piercing bite to end his existence, it never came. Instead, he heard a screech and the body went limp above him. When he finally turned his head, he was greeted with a scaly hand extended to help him up. Schyre assisted Hadvar to his feet and began plucking the arrows from the insect husks. Hadvar marveled a moment at the precision of each arrow, each one nestled between the clusters of eyes as she gathered them up.

"You favor the bow?" he asked. "Aye" she replied, pulling the final arrow from the carrion.

"You should gather up their venom." Hadvar stated, gesturing to the dead spiders. "Frostspider venom makes a great topical poison. Feels like the worst hangover of your life." He shook his head, still trying to clear his thoughts. Schyre handed him a potion she had gathered from one of the storerooms on their descent. After he had drained the contents, she used the bottle to gather the venom of the largest spider, safely storing it in her pack. She then noticed the large clam like egg sacs that clung to the wall. Steeling herself, she reached into the cavity and felt around until she pulled out a glistening mucus covered spider egg. She knew she had read something about spiders' eggs and their use in alchemy, but much of Isael's teachings had focused on components from Cryodiil, not Skyrim.

Shuddering at what was to come, she tossed the spider's egg into her mouth and bit down. She was immediately filled with revulsion as the soft shell broke on her tongue and filled her mouth with the bitter foul tasting insides. She swore she could feel eight miniscule legs delicately brushing against her taste buds. She gagged as she forced herself to hold the liquid in her mouth, concentrating on her body and the effect it had on her. _The only down side is_, she thought, _sometimes I can't tell if an effect is from the ingredient or me feeling ill from eating it! _Nonetheless, Isael had taught her well and within a few moments she noticed her energy level was steadily being depleted. Having gained what knowledge she could from tasting, she spat the remainder onto the ground, vigorously wiping her jaw with the back of her hand.

"Hungry?" Hadvar inquired, chuckling lightly from the tunnel entrance. Schyre shook her head. "Not anymore," she said thickly, trailing behind him. This series of tunnels came to another open cavern where the river widened. Using her hands, Schyre scooped up some of the crystalline water and used it to wash the horrendous taste of underdeveloped spider embryo from her mouth. She was about to take another handful when she saw Hadvar crouch low to the ground and gesture to her. Equipping her bow, she glided to his side, peering behind a natural stone column at what had caught his attention.

A large black bear dozed in a narrow channel of sunlight several paces ahead of them. The earth surrounding its lair was littered with many varieties of bones, giving the distinct impression that this was not one of Skyrim's friendlier inhabitants. _Dragons and spiders and bears, dear Sithis!_ Schyre thought as Hadvar handed her a few more arrows from a nearby corpse. "We could sneak around." He said, pointing to a path around the slumbering bear.

Schyre had already launched an arrow before he had turned around. It pierced the bear in the temple, killing it in its sleep. She raised a brow at Hadvar, who shook his head. "Guess your not one for sneaking, huh?" Hadvar claimed.

Schyre shrugged. "If you wish to sneak, go ahead. Me?" she flashed him a grin. "I'd like to get out of here before we run into something else that wants to kill us."

Hadvar stood, brushing himself off. "Well said, friend. However, this is Skyrim. There's always something that wants to kill you."

They traversed further along the caves until finally; up ahead they saw a bloom of light that could only have been an outlet. Almost abandoning their caution, the two weary survivors sped towards the light. Schyre was nearly blinded by the brilliant sunlight gleaming off the fresh snow when she exited the jagged cavern. Hadvar too, seemed breathless at the sight. Their revelry was short lived when a great black shadow descended upon them.

"Take cover!" Hadvar dared to whisper as he and Schyre dove behind a boulder, while the great dragon glided by them. Again she found herself holding her breath as the creature passed overhead without detecting them. It glided along the updrafts created by the mountain pass, black as death, its strange cry reverberating throughout the pass. Finally, Hadvar deemed the coast clear and with as much dignity as they could muster, extracted themselves from their hiding place.

Hadvar glanced around surveying the land a moment before pointing to the northeast. "There's a small town called Riverwood a few miles to the northeast of here. Got an uncle who's a blacksmith named Alvor. Town's not much, but there's food and supplies available and he'll help us out. Best we go our separate ways. I'll meet you there, friend. I owe you my life." With that, he turned and began walking in the direction he had gestured earlier.

Schyre waited until he was a respectable distance away then followed behind him. Felling incredibly self conscience and exposed, a blood red blot among the fallen snow, she crouched into her normal sneaking position in a vain attempt to make herself less conspicuous. She came to a stop when she spotted a stubby shrub, peppered with scarlet berries that rivaled her scales. She recalled this plant from her lessons. Snowberries. Greedily she grabbed a handful, savoring their tangy sweet flavor in sharp contrast to the horror she had eaten earlier. She spent a few moments gathering more berries and felt her heart leap when she saw blue, red, and purple mountain flowers growing in abundance. _This place is a veritable alchemic paradise_, she thought as she plucked a large blossom and placed it in her pack.

She picked her way along the path, stopping here and there to stuff her pack with a variety of flowers, mushrooms and berries along the way. The meager fortifications of Riverwood came into view as she rounded the bend banked by the river that intersected the small town. She gazed longingly at the crisp clear water, wanting nothing more than to dive into the torrents and feel the waters flow over her. Prudence kept her moving forward, realizing that the water would only heighten the coldness already seeping into her marrow. She only stopped when she came upon three great oblong boulders, each carved with an effigy: the thief, the mage, the warrior.

Schyre hesitated a moment before tentatively reaching out to touch the Thief stone. Warmth radiated beneath her finger tips and she jerked her hand back in surprise as the stars of the Thief constellation were set ablaze by magic. The shimmer gradually faded, leaving Schyre feeling a little light headed, but somehow, a bit lighter on her feet. She looked over the stones for a moment, but considering no harm done and no ill effects from contact with them, shrugged and continued on.

The guard at the gate gave her a terse nod as she entered. "Argonian," he stated. "Human" she replied as se strolled by him. The town, if it could be truly called that, was barely a blemish on the face of Skyrim. It seemed to span only a few hundred paces and Schyre had already noted only a few points of interest. To her right, Hadvar stood talking to a tall man under a blacksmith banner. Further into town sat a small inn, it's gnarled sign proclaimed The Sleeping Giant Inn to any passersby. An older woman whom was ranting about the dragon sighting to her clearly embarrassed son caught Schyre's attention briefly before she was summoned by Hadvar.

They led her into the small home joined to the smith and after introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, Schyre, Hadvar, and Alvor got down to business. Alvor's wife poured Schyre a heaping bow of lamb stew, which she ravenously devoured, as the discussed local politics, the rebellion and the reappearance of the dragons. Between mouthfuls of stew, Schyre was volunteered to travel to a nearby town of Whiterun to warn the Jarl of the impending dragon attacks. Her tail twitched in annoyance at being practically forced to go, but seeing as how they had opened their home to her and were feeding her, she felt obligated.

With a full belly and the opportunity to rest, the aches and pains that adrenaline had kept at bay slowly seeped into her muscles and tendons. The roaring fire only added to her lethargy. Schyre had never recalled feeling more weary, but seeing twilight was still a few hours away, so she excused herself and went outside. Alvor's burly form was hunched over the smith, busily hammering away on some farm tool. Schyre glanced over his shoulder, curious but trying not get in the way.

Alvor straightened, wiping his brow with his hairy arm and gestured to the anvil behind him. "Interested in smiting, eh? Why don't you use this ingot and go make me a dagger." He said as he tossed her an iron ingot. Schyre caught it and hesitantly approached the anvil. She looked at Alvor questioningly. "Like this,"he said.

They spent the next couple of hours darting from anvil to fire to grindstone, Alvor patiently instructing her all the way. Schyre found she like working with metal: the fire comforted her and she took pride in crafting something with her own to hands. As dusk approached, she was the proud owner of a fine iron dagger and had even improved the shoddy bow she lifted from Helgen.

She was washed the soot off her hands in the river as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. The chill deepened immensely with nightfall approaching and Schyre joined Alvor inside the small house. After Sigrid fed them a meal of roasted pheasant and boiled carrots, Schyre could barely keep her eyes open. She was guided to a small straw bed near the rear of the house. Her wary nature would have normally forced her to sleep with one eye open, but after all the recent events she didn't have enough energy left. Deciding to trust her new friends, she slipped into a deep dreamless slumber where the dragon's call couldn't reach her.


	3. The Power of Words

Chapter 3

The Power of Words

A horrible screeching noise pierced Schyre's sleep like a freshly honed blade. "The dragon's attacking!" she automatic thought as she fumbled for her bow in the dim light. The fire had burned down to embers, signifying that a few hours had lapsed. She practically fell out of the bed- her first night of rest had given her overtaxed joints a chance to stiffen, spilling her ungracefully on the floor as she attempted to leap into action. She winced as her aching body acknowledged the cold ambient air out of the blankets, but with the town under attack she would have no luxury to ease her pains now.

Both Alvor and Hadvar had risen from their beds in alarm at her thrashing. Hadvar was at her side within moments, a lantern in hand looking over her, clearly concerned. "Dragon!" she said breathlessly. Hadvar and Alvor looked at each other confused for a moment, and then let out roaring laughter. Alvor shook his head and between laughs replied, "Nay, friend. Tis no dragon! Though I fear he may be just as much as a nuisance as one. Come see." He helped her to her feet and led her to the door. Thoroughly bewildered and quickly losing the nervous tension that held her upright, she stumbled to the door that Hadvar held open. Her ears were greeted with more harsh noises followed by an off key voice "singing". A blond haired man strummed a lute, earnestly vocalizing sour notes to a giggling brunette female standing on the balcony of the Riverwood Trader. The bard continued to croon in ardor, comparing her features to the moon, night, and various other elements. The female squealed in delight at each reference, obviously enjoying the attention.

Schyre stared dumbfounded at the scene, blinking in confusion as her brain tried to justify the absurd behavior being played out. "Is this some sort of weird human mating ritual?" she asked Hadvar. Alvor, who had joined them at the door, barked out a laugh. "Never thought of it that way, but I suppose it is, "he replied with a grin. The blonde man belted out another piercing note and Schyre's finger twitched on her bow; the urge to end the human's serenade and go back to sleep led her to seriously contemplate shooting him.

Fortunately, a Bosmer intervened precisely at that moment, sparing the human the indignity of pulling an arrow out of his rear. "How dare you, Sven!" the wood elf yelled, storming over to the bard. "Calling on Camilla at this hour! Have you no sense of decency?" Schyre watched with renewed interest as the Bosmer confronted the Nord, hoping that the hunter would deck the bard. The brunette cried out for them to stop, rapidly pacing the balcony and wringing her hands in worry. To Schyre's disappointment, Alvor stepped out to break the two up before they came to blows sent them on their way and after some chastising. With a sullen look, the elf put away his bow and disappeared into the night even as the bard made a rude gesture behind his back. The woman on the balcony had already retreated inside the shop, slamming the door behind her. The only other people outside were the few onlookers left in their wake, and even they started to disperse while murmuring to each other about the spectacle.

Back in the house, as Schyre propped her bow against the bed and sat down again, Hadvar and Alvor explained to her that this was a regular occurrence. Apparently, there existed a love triangle between the Bosmer Faendal, the bard, and the young woman of the Riverwood Trader. It rarely came to violence, but the rivalry was getting more and more out of hand. Worse, the bard had moved on from badly written prose to crooning love songs in the night. "That damned bard's songs would turn a goat's milk sour," Alvor declared as he climbed back in bed, grumbling.

Schyre agreed, irate that the first decent night's sleep in several weeks had been sullied by some Nord's clumsy attempt at wooing a mate. She stoked the fire, threw on another log and climbed back under the itchy wool blanket that had felt like paradise earlier. Sleep did not come easily to her this time. She lay awake long after the quiet breathing of the others fell into steady rhythmic patterns telling her she was the only one still awake. Every time her eyelids drooped heavily for sleep, her mind played pictures the small town of Riverwood set aflame and its denizens fleeing in panic as the black dragon descended upon them. The screams of terror in her head would make her eyes snap open again and her heart race.

Schyre couldn't stop thinking about it- these were good people, and her protective nature wouldn't let her rest with such a very-real threat looming over their heads. She'd been a huntress and guardian for others since her woman-child days, and at least for tonight the people of this town were her people. Her ingrained instincts would put her between danger and any one of them. Well… maybe there was ONE exception. An unbidden thought of the obnoxiously noisy bard came to mind, tainting her protective worry with annoyance. Finally accepting that she couldn't force herself to not think about it, she directed her imagination to focus all of the dragon's horrific savagery visited upon the bard. That foolish man's caterwauling would summon the black beast from the far corners of the world. It would crush him beneath its claws, rend him in half, set him ablaze and eat him alive, all in the name of silencing the noise he dared to call music. The thought that his performance was enough to irritate a dragon amused her immensely. As her body and brain relaxed for sleep, his imaginary deaths became more and more comical. By the end of it, his charred remains were still squeaking sour notes in defiance until the dragon physically jumped up and down stomping it with both feet to scatter his ashes to dust. A slight smile played across her lips as sleep finally took her and she dreamed of the dragon Schyre Redclay being heralded as a great hero for ridding the world of its greatest menace.

Schyre woke right at the crack of dawn, languidly stretching her body to try and work some of the kinks out. Having no spare clothing, she had slept in her armor and it caused some of the muscles in her back to bunch up. Alvor's family still slept peacefully in the glow of the hearth's last embers. Not wishing to disturb them, Schyre silently donned her boots and took her bow in hand. When she unlatched the door and started to crack it open, the blast of crisp cold air from the outside sent a shiver down her spine. Loathe to leave the warmth of the home, nevertheless she closed the door behind her and strode down the road. The rest of the town still slept with plumes of smoke from various chimneys rising lazily to touch the dawn sky. A couple guards patrolled the main road, but for the most part the streets were empty.

Schyre strolled down to the saw mill, and after a quick survey of the area, hid behind a large deposit of logs to remove her armor. She sank into the frigid waters, gasping at how cold the water was but relished it nonetheless. It truly felt wonderful to wash the grime off and reveal her shining scales. The cold waters immediately began to drain her energy and wit and she knew her bath must be brief, but even something as simple as being clean did wonders for her spirit. Ahead, she spied several small fish darting among the plants. With an expression of pure glee, she instantly chased them around the river bed and snatched a river betty with her bare hands. It was commonplace for her kind to eat fish raw, and she decided a morning snack would do no harm. She swallowed the betty whole, enjoying the mild taste as it slid down her throat. She was thoroughly frozen to the bone, but at this point she didn't care anymore. She sank underwater and let the current carry her downstream, viewing the distorted world from beneath the surface.

A large stag dipped its nose into the stream ahead of Schyre. She dug her clawed feet into the pebbles and sand to halt her movement and silently watched the creature drink. It was a male of impressive size, and Schyre was suddenly inspired as to how she could repay her hosts' kindness. Furtively, she propelled herself back towards the town to her gear, staying hidden beneath the surface. She broke the surface of the water at the mill and quickly donned her armor. The town was just coming alive and a few men were heading her way to begin a day of toiling at the mill. Armor tightened and bow at the ready, she stealthily crept towards the last spot she had seen the deer. Not far from the river bank the buck grazed idly, unaware of the danger it was in. Bracing herself behind a rocky outcropping, Schyre took aim. Drawing the bow fully back, she let the arrow fly, lodging it firmly into the deer's heart. A small strangled cry escaped the creature as it fell to the earth. She quickly skinned the animal and carved the choicest pieces of venison from the stag. She also cut the antlers loose, planning to grind them to a fine powder that would later become a powerful reagent for several potions.

Wrapping the bloody meat in the hide, she slung it over her shoulder and sprinted back to town. Hadvar and the others were just rising as she entered the small house. Alvor's wife Sigrid was stoking the fire and had applied fresh logs to the fire pit. She smiled gratefully as Schyre unveiled the meat. Sigrid placed it in the cooking pot with some mead and elves ears for an afternoon meal.

After a breakfast of eggs, flat bread, and beef with gravy she excused herself from the table. Hadvar kept pressuring her to join the Imperial Legion, a prospect she wasn't willing to explore just yet. The idea held some appeal, but she refused to commit without knowing her other options. Swearing in with the Legion required total commitment and dependence upon the empire, and Schyre had just gotten her first taste of freedom in almost two fortnights. She wasn't too keen on the thought of signing it away so readily. She preferred her independence and didn't like the idea of being just one of a thousand soldiers who unquestioningly obeyed someone else's orders. Whatever cause she chose to back, she would do so with complete commitment, and only after she has judged it as worthy of her support.

Schyre gave Hadvar a noncommittal reply to his suggestion and prepared for her own solo journey. She was offered and gladly took a few essentials from the household. As she finally bade the family farewell, Alvor graciously permitted her to use his blacksmithing equipment whenever she was in town and advised her to try the local inn for bounties. Once outside, she faced the world and reveled in the thought of being totally free for the first time. The first act she would do on her own behalf would be to make use of the deer skin she acquired this morning. Schyre washed the bloody hide in the river before stretching it on the tanning rack. After cleaning and tanning the leather, she cut some strips for binding and used the rest to fashion herself better fitting leather breastplate. Form-fitted to her shape, it offered far better protection than the human-intended imperial armor; she was able to minimize the gaps between layers where an unsuspecting blade could slip in and damage vital organs.

Feeling great pride in her handiwork, she donned her new custom armor and tucked the old armor into her pack to sell later. She was just finishing up cleaning the forge area when she heard the heavy stomp of boots traveling up the road. Rounding the bend and angrily muttering to himself was the very same bard that had woken her from her slumber the previous night. By the deliberate stamping of his feet and the disgruntled scowl on his face, Schyre could tell something was aggravating him. She stopped wiping down the anvil for a moment and cocked her head to better hear his murmurings. "Damn Faendal!" he spat venomously, "Trying to court MY Camilla! May the divines wither his manhood! May they..." Schyre listen a moment more as the insults grew cruder and more violent. She smiled to herself maliciously. Ah Sithis, you do have a wicked sense of humor, she thought as she stepped out onto the street directly into his path. Sven startled a moment at the sudden appearance of the Argonian that blocked his way. "Trouble, friend?" she asked. Sven fumed. "Can you not see?" he exclaimed gesturing to the trader's shop. "He courts her even though he knows she is mine. Fool elf! As if she would ever want him!"

Schyre held up her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture trying to calm the bard. "I know," she said soothingly. "I saw him interrupt your… lovely song just last night. You happen to be in luck, my friend. It seems like I am in need of employment and you are in need of assistance. Perhaps there is some way I could take care of this matter for you?" She left the question vague purposely, planning on twisting whatever "revenge" the man planned to use for her own vengeance. Sven's eyes brightened at the prospect. "Yes!" he cried out. "Brilliant! Here take this note to Camilla," he said while quickly scribbling a message on parchment and handing it to Schyre. "Tell her it's from Faendal. She'll never want to speak to him again! I'll reward you once the task in done."

The man was practically bubbling with glee as he wandered away when Schyre furtively read the note. It took all of her self-control to not burst out laughing. The note was a paltry attempt to sabotage the elf's relationship with Camilla, alluding that his station was greater than hers and he would never sully himself to court a human. This is how you handle a rival? She gave Sven a sidelong glance. You write a note? No challenge for her favor? No fight for honor? Not even a quick and quiet death of your enemy in the night? Truly, I am doing this female a favor. She shook her head and walked up to the Riverwood Trader. I almost feel bad about this, she mused. Then she thought about the horrible off-key noise jarring her from her first decent night's sleep in weeks. Almost.

She pushed the creaky door open and walked into the shop… and into the middle of an argument. The brunette woman Camilla was engaged in some kind of dispute with the proprietor of the shop. Schyre stood by awkwardly while they went back and forth about a golden claw being stolen. Camilla seemed set on going after the bandits that had stolen the claw while her brother outright protested the idea of her leaving town to face the dangers outside. Schyre admired the woman's gumption, but she obviously was not a warrior. Chasing headlong into a den of armed bandits would no doubt get the poor lass killed… or worse.

Schyre cleared her throat and the two stopped mid sentence to look at her. Looking slightly embarrassed, Camilla excused herself, but not before having the last word with the man she addressed as Lucan. She quietly tended the cooking pot by the hearth, but judging by her rigid frame and tense movements, Schyre guessed the altercation was far from over. Perhaps Sithis was watching over her after all. Schyre needed work, and an opportunity literally fell into her lap. She approached Lucan first, just in case her business with Camilla was too delicate and would upset the girl past the point cordiality. After browsing his wares and buying a few minor spell tomes, she inquired about the missing item.

Lucan proceeded to explain that thieves had broken into his store and made off with a small sculpture in the form of a golden dragon claw. Dreaming about the value of a solid gold piece of art, Schyre gallantly offered to retrieve the item. Lucan gave her a relieved smile, saying he'd gladly reward her for the return of his family heirloom. After hearing the details about where they suspected the thieves were located and further arguments between the siblings, it was decided that Camilla would be allowed to lead Schyre to the edge of town and direct her to Bleak Falls Barrow. Schyre walked along with the maiden as she talked about her dreams to leave the village and see the world, but that her over-protective brother wanted her to stay.

Very soon they approached a weathered bridge that led out of town. After Camilla stated the directions to take beyond the bridge and bade her farewell, Schyre stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Sven wanted me to give this to you and say it was from Faendal," she said quietly while slipping the note into her hand. "I thought you should know." Schyre watched with smug satisfaction as Camilla's eyes widened to an almost alarming size as she read the letter. The color rose to her cheeks as she sputtered incoherent outrage towards Sven, forcefully ripping the letter to shreds. After tossing the remains of the letter to the wind, she thanked Schyre and spun on her heel to storm back into town. Schyre waited a moment, then slid into the shadows and crept back towards the town, eager to see the show.

Camilla had just passed the Sleeping Giant Inn when Sven came around the bend. "Camilla!" he cried with fervor, "My enchanting flower, I was just…." Sven's adulation came to an abrupt halt as Camilla's open palm slapped across his cheek with such force it caused him to stagger. "Never speak to me again," she hissed, leaving the bard standing dumbfounded in the middle of the street. Schyre snickered as softly as she could while still concealed in the shadows of the inn. She decided not to stay and watch the bard chase the woman down the street, satisfied that his cowardly deception was more than enough to turn the girl cold to him.

Schyre's joy didn't last for long after officially starting on her trek. The land around Riverwood was cool but bursting with plant life. Passing over the western bridge though eventually turned this outing into a journey to a completely different world. In the beginning, she didn't notice anything different; with the land as pleasant as it was, Schyre was truthfully almost happy to be on this errand. After a short while, she encountered a mountain path heading up. At first, Schyre didn't think anything of it as she ascended the easy slope. The further west she traveled though, the higher the altitude rose and the colder it became. It was a gradual but discernable shift from beauty all around to lifeless gray rocks. The chilling wind blew mercilessly, and the thick clouds trapped amid the mountains blocked the sunlight while shedding tiny flecks of snow. Schyre walked along, fruitlessly hugging her arms to preserve the waning warmth within herself. She knew that Skyrim was known for its bitterly cold terrain, but the relatively mild areas to the south led her to take the warning for granted. Now, she was truly experiencing the fickle weather and paying dearly for her presumption that the days would at least be tolerable.

When she finally reached the Barrow, she could do nothing but stand in awe at how the structure survived both time and the elements. Large black granite pillars twisted towards the heavens like grasping fingers, still intact though covered in a thick layer of ice and snow. The expansive, strange architecture convinced Schyre that at some time in this land's ancient history, this place must have been a prominent temple to whatever deity they worshipped. The black stone contrasted starkly against the thick white snow and only seemed to increase the sense of isolation and foreboding. It made the ruins appear all the more alien and untouched by time; this was a place frozen to a complete standstill.

Bleak Falls Barrow may have been a ruin quietly preserved through the passing ages, but by no means was it lifeless. Schyre's hypnotic trance of its grandeur was broken by a sharp clatter of an arrow striking the stone next to her head; if this blasted wind was not as strong as it was, that arrow could have made its mark in her skull. She cursed and took cover behind a rocky outcropping as a second arrow pierced the space she was just occupying. Focus, she chided herself, or you'll sleep forever in this place too. Schyre carefully peered around the rock to find her attacker as she readied her bow. It was a good thing she looked when she did- there was a swordsman running down the trail, and had she looked two seconds later she would have been caught by surprise.

As the bandit rounded the edge of her hiding spot, she shot her arrow into his gut before he could hack at her with his weapon. The Nord was staggered by the sudden wound and Schyre leapt at him, dagger drawn. After a brief dodge and parry her dagger found its home in the side of the man's neck. He gurgled and fell to his knees even as Schyre dropped her blade to ready her bow for a second sword-wielding bandit charging at her. She loosed her arrow at him and dropped down to her belly, narrowly dodging another arrow flying towards her. Schyre grimaced as she scooted behind her cover again- the cold weather and active combat were affecting her normally-perfect accuracy. Rather than piercing the man's heart, her arrow strayed higher than it should have and only buried itself in the space below his collarbone. The man's left arm wouldn't serve him well, but a wound like that was not enough to stop him.

Schyre reached for her dagger as well as the sword of the fallen bandit, this time ready for a close encounter. Unfortunately, this bandit seemed to be a more experienced fighter than the previous fellow because he blocked her sudden strike with enough force to send her a step backwards. Schyre clumsily danced to the side as the bandit attacked her yet again- there was a wall of rock behind her and she couldn't allow herself to be driven against it. Making a quick decision, she raised her sword to directly block the overhead slash. The clang of metal reverberated between the stone walls even as it rattled her bones and dropped her to her knee, but this was by design- with his strike checked and her lowered vantage point, the man was completely helpless to the dagger she held readied in her other hand. All it took was a quick thrust and her personally-crafted blade ended the fight abruptly.

Wincing as she massaged her sword-wielding hand, she contemplated how to best deal with the archer near the entry to the barrow. She'd prefer to simply put an arrow into the threat, but she was confined to this one rock for cover and he had the advantage of multiple pillars to hide behind, not to mention an elevated position. She had to get closer to him, but she worried that if she got too close he'd turn to using a sword, a prospect that her hand would not forgive her for if she clashed swords again. As she contemplated her options, a strong gust of wind blew more snow and sleet into her face. Schyre brushed the icy droplets from her eyes, wishing for warmth so her movements wouldn't be so hindered. The thought of a fire hearth reminded her of an unused asset: one of the spell books she had purchased was a novice-level destruction-school spell: Flames. She was disappointed to learn that the fire produced by this spell quickly dissipates, but for use as an attack it was sufficient. With all of this ice and snow around, it could be just the thing she'd need to get the upper hand against her remaining foe.

Schyre gripped her bow and an arrow in one hand, readying her weapon as much as she could. Once on the path, she'd have to move quickly to avoid being shot. While crouched, she stretched each leg one by one to limber her joints as much as she could. After breathing deeply to ready herself mentally, she took off at a full sprint towards the ruin. She stayed as close to the edge of the path as she could manage, dodging behind one of the pillars before dashing again. In this manner she soon reached the stairs and began climbing them as quickly as she could while maintaining her footing. With her attention momentarily distracted by the snow-covered ascent, she caught sight of another arrow too late. She twisted her body to dodge but still took the arrow in her shoulder. The sideways motion on the icy stairs made her lose her footing and she fell to the side. The bandit yelled in triumph and came dashing down the stairs while drawing his sword to finish her off.

This was the chance she needed! She held up her empty hand, summoned her magical energies, and shot forth a cone of fire. The flames made an impressive display as she fanned them up toward the man. The bandit hesitated to charge at her with the blossom of fire erupting, but almost as soon as it started, Schyre cut it off as she quickly climbed to her feet, readying bow and arrow. Seeing his opportunity, the man charged down to strike her before she could draw back and aim at him. The man hadn't even taken five steps down when her trap was sprung- the snow covering each step had only just begun to thaw when the heat source was extinguished, so the water sitting on the frozen stone quickly reformed to now-solid ice. The bandit's foot slipped and he fell backwards, sliding down a few more steps before he could stop himself. As the bandit was sitting up to jump to his feet again, Schyre loosed her arrow, this time piercing his lung. It wouldn't be a quick death for the man, but she didn't feel the need to criticize her shot this time.

With the immediate danger gone, Schyre could now focus on her own injury. She braced herself against one of the pillars and jerked the arrow out of her shoulder. The biting cold seemed to aggravate the wound rather than numb it. She glared at the wound, noticing that the arrow had punctured her armor. Brand new armor. Figures. Resigned, she called on her healing powers and ascended the stairs of the barrow. She was fully healed by the time she reached the large iron doors. Bracing her other shoulder against one of the great double doors, she leaned heavily into it until the door groaned slowly open. The entryway led into what must have once been a large antechamber. Despite it having a stone interior, the place was almost blessedly warm by comparison to the incessant chill outside. The carcasses of skeevers and bandits littered the floor along with broken stone columns and pieces of oil lamps.

Keeping low, Schyre crept forward to hide behind the nearest column as the door heavily closed again on its own. With only the sporadic torch and lamp light illuminating the place, she clung to the shadows, darting between the columns and only stopping short when she heard voices up ahead. She quietly inched closer, eavesdropping on the conversation being held over a small campfire. "When's Arvel coming back?" one bandit asked in a whiny, nasally voice that immediately grated in Schyre's ears. "I don't know," the other replied in a surly tone, "If that dark elf wants to run on ahead, let him. Better his neck than ours. He'll be back soon." The first protested anxiously, "Yeah, but he has the claw. I want my cut of that gold. What if he doesn't come ba..."

Having heard what was needed, Schyre silenced the bandit with an arrow to the back of the head. His voice sounded too much like a badly strummed lute to let him talk more than necessary. As his partner fell in a heap, the second bandit barely had time to scramble to his feet before catching an arrow in the throat. Schyre approached the bodies, quietly pleased that her aim was returning as the rest of her thawed out. She picked over the bodies and campsite, taking a few lock picks and some minor potions. Using one of the newly-acquired picks, she fiddled with the lock on a small chest nearby and finally sprung it. After looting the few valuables inside, she made her way down the bumpy, twisting passages. Schyre wasn't sure how long she wandered until she came upon a small chamber. The exit beyond was sealed by a portcullis, and the only mechanism to open it seemed to be a lever affixed to the floor several feet in front of it. A lone bandit paced the center of the room anxiously, staring back and forth between the gate and the lever. Before she could notch an arrow, the man suddenly stopped moving. As if coming to a decision, he deliberately marched toward the lever and threw it.

Schyre watched the scene unfold as the bandit was struck down by several arrows flying from hidden locations. His body crumpled to the floor and the familiar scent of nightshade wafted into the corridor. Poison, she thought. Though immune to the effects of poison, a bolt through the chest would put her down just as easily. Creeping forward warily, she scanned the entire room before standing upright. She was able to pinpoint some of the areas that launched the darts, but for all she knew the entire room could be trapped. She nearly laughed out loud at the thought of coming this far only to be killed be some primitive Nord anti-theft device.

A collapsed carving of a snake had fallen near the lever and was slowly being overgrown with cave lichen. Schyre discovered three stones with animal carvings off to the left, but more interesting than that was the fact that each stone had the same three carvings facing in different directions. Just for curiosity's sake, she tried rotating one of the large stones. To her surprise, not only did it spin, it moved easily in place with surprisingly little force from her. Curious about that feature, she looked around for any other interesting characteristics to this small room. She soon cast her eyes upward and saw two grotesque carvings above her. Hand carved, each relief featured a large face with an overstretched mouth housing the image of an animal: a snake in one and a whale in the other. There was a gap in the middle large enough for a third head, but if there had been one it was long ago sheared from the wall. Nice ambiance, Schyre mused wondering why the ancient Nords had chosen to decorate with disturbing carvings of staring faces. Perhaps someone lost a wager… or they just went with the lowest bidder. As she smirked at her own joke, her eyes glanced at the collapsed carving on the floor. A snake, hmm? Quietly inspired, she glanced up again and decided to rotate the stones to match the animals in the figures: snakes on the left and in the middle, and a whale on the right.

With the stones rearranged in that fashion, Schyre pulled the lever and deftly jumped away back towards the room's entryway, lest her hunch was wrong. The steel gate blocking her way rose into the wall, revealing a rickety spiral staircase leading deeper into the ruins. She began the descent, trying hard to not to think of the tons of earth above her that could come crashing down any second. A few skeevers tried to charge her on the stairway, but she burned them alive with her spell, leaving the scent of charred flesh and fur in her wake. The tunnel grew darker the further she went down, and she was forced to create an impromptu torch from the femur and remnants of an old skeleton lying at the bottom of the passage. The underground path grew uneven and she had to catch herself with one hand on the wall to keep from stumbling.

She hissed in disgust as she pulled her hand away from a sticky mass of spider's webbing. The webs got thicker and denser the further down she went, and she did not like the implications. Schyre had to stop several times to burn away tangled masses of webs that completely blocked her path. She had just finished setting another one ablaze when she heard a voice call out to her. The dissipating web revealed a large chamber completely swathed in webbing. Trapped against the wall in the gossamer strands of spider silk, a dark elf pleaded for his freedom. Before Schyre could respond, he started shrieking in terror as an enormous frostbite spider lowered itself to the floor. Schyre flung the torch in its face and retreated back into the corridor where the creature's size prevented it from reaching her. The spider hissed and spat poison at her, lunging at her from the doorway and racing back and forth to find some way to squeeze in to get her. She fired several arrows at the spider, but despite its size the creature was awfully nimble and dodged the bulk of them. From the back of the chamber, the dunmer repeatedly shrieked hysterically, "Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"

"I'm working on it!" Schyre growled. She cursed as the spider dodged another arrow. Frustrated, she dropped her bow and launched volley of flames toward the spider. The creature shrieked as it caught fire and tried to extinguish the flames by rubbing them with its hairy legs. Schyre quickly advanced on the spider and stabbed it several times before it turned on her. The elf was still screaming in the background as Schyre battled the creature. "Shut up!" she yelled at him as she lunged at the spider, slicing a chunk off the leg that reached for her. The spider raised its head and legs in an aggressive posture, but in doing so it exposed its soft underbelly. Schyre darted in, narrowly missing being snagged in its sharp fangs and plunged the dagger deep into its body. The creature shuddered while letting out a low shriek and slumped to the side, finally dead.

Schyre braced herself against the wall, panting for a moment. Unaccustomed to direct combat for such an extended amount of time, she was quite winded. After all, swinging a sword or dagger over and over took much more effort than a stealthy, well-placed arrow that could kill in one blow. "Hey! Hey, you!" the dunmer called to her. Schyre turned to glare at the elf suspended in the webbing. When she offered no response, he tried again. "Cut me down from here. I have a great treasure; I'll share it with you. Just get me outta here!"

"You must be Arvel," Schyre commented dryly while straightening herself and retrieving her bow. She approached him with a predatory smile on her face. "You have something I want- something that doesn't belong to you." Seemingly nonplussed by her attitude, the dark elf responded in a friendly tone, "It's actually Arvel the Swift, but that's fine. You must mean the golden claw. Sure! Cut me down and I'll give it to you." His demeanor was cooperative, but Schyre sensed that it was likely a lie; this is the type of guy that will say or do anything to get his way. He's going to try to run, she thought to herself. "No, give it to me first, THEN I'll cut you down," she retorted. Arvel made a pathetic attempt to shrug, "I'd love to," he stated, "however, I can't move my arms. Cut me down and then I will give it to you."

Schyre mentally sighed- he did have a point. She examined the webbing and saw no easy point of access. If she dug too deeply into the webs to try to grab the claw, she'd likely end up entangled just like him. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped face-to-face with the elf while they waited for something else to come along and eat them. He's going to try to run though, she thought again, I just know it. She removed an arrow from her quiver and kept her bow handy as she drew her dagger to start cutting the web. She looked Arvel in the eyes and right before she cut the final strands holding him, she warned him stoically, "If you run, I will kill you." With her intentions announced, she cut the remaining threads and let the dunmer drop to the ground. Freeing the dark elf revealed a new passage that had been directly behind him. Schyre sheathed her blade and turned to Arvel…..who was already running down the tunnel.

"To the Void!" she cursed, grabbing her bow. She tried to get a clean shot, but the tunnel had so many sharp turns it was all she could do to keep up with him. The elf was surprising fast and Schyre had to fully sprint in order not to lose him. They came to an open chamber lined with tombs. Mummified bodies lined the wall, tucked away in small recesses carved into the earth. All this barely registered with Schyre, for she had her eye trained on Arvel. She had just lined up the perfect shot when a corpse near Arvel sprung to life and attacked him. All her years of training momentarily forgotten in shock, the arrow went wide, embedding itself in the clay earth of the tomb. Schyre stared in outright horror and revulsion as the undead thing drove the blade of an ancient great sword completely through the dark elf, lifting him clean off the floor. Tossing the body aside like a child's doll, the thing focused its blank eyes on her and shambled forward, weapon at the ready.

Schyre stood, rooted in place in sheer terror. She had heard tales of the dead returning from the Void, but she'd never believed it to be true. In the swamp, the dead were burned. The prevalence of disease and scavengers left few options for the disposal of remains. One unchecked corpse could bring ruin to an entire village. Of course, there were gruesome campfire tales meant to frighten young hatchlings, but that's all they were- just stories, just fantasy. Confronting one in the flesh was completely different. Details that no story-teller in the swamp could have known about made this encounter all the more horrifically real. Years of fine dust that had settled in the sinew and taut muscles of the undead creature fell away as it moved towards her. What had once been elaborate armor now sparsely covered its skeletal frame. A few remaining strands of hair clung to its scalp, matted with dirt and blood. Its skin had dried up and was stretched firmly across its bones, all indication of gender stripped away, leaving nothing of the person it used to be. The thing's eyes fixed on Schyre's own gaze, glaring balefully at her with glazed over pupils. The jaw moved and though it possessed no tongue that she could see, the thing spoke to her in a dry, growling voice, "Fah Dinok Draal!" At that same moment, it raised the great blade over its head and brought it crashing down over her.

That was only thing that saved her life- she heard those guttural words, uttered in the archaic, long-dead language, and understood them. "Pray for death" was what the abomination had said to her before attempting to take her life. She snapped out of her terror-induced paralysis at the last second as her battle instincts took over. She dove to the side and tumbled away as the blade came down, nearly decapitating her. She rolled to her feet in a low stance, dagger ready, and circled the draugr. Something behind her stirred and she dared a quick look over her shoulder to see yet another two corpses rising from their slumber to join in the fray.

Schyre snarled, ferociously attacking the undead warrior ahead of her. Although the creature didn't bleed, she could see that her strikes wounded it as they would any living creature. Wary of the two new draugr advancing on her, she realized she was outnumbered and would be flanked if she didn't kill this one quickly enough. She had just dispatched the first foe and turned to confront the other two charging her when one of them stepped on a decorative stone in the center of the floor. With a loud metallic shriek, a large spiked gate swung on the side of the doorway into the draugr, thoroughly impaling them and slamming them against the wall. Schyre jumped in surprise as the gate retracted back, dragging the corpses with it and leaving her standing alone in the room. "Well, that works!" she said aloud to herself after sheathing her blade. She pried the great sword from the first draugr's hands, and from a safe distance, struck the marked stone on the floor. Again, the spiked gate swung around with deadly speed, this time flinging the draugr corpses violently away to crash against the far walls before the trap reset itself. Schyre made a mental note to keep and eye out for such stones in the future. She quickly looted Arvel's body, claiming both the claw and his personal journal. After flipping through his journal and reading the few passages about the secret treasure of the Barrow, she tossed it near his body.

Schyre finally had the claw. She could leave this place, return to the Trader, collect her reward, and get on with her life, but…. She'd be lying to herself if she said she wasn't interested in this secret treasure. It wasn't greed that drove her, more so curiosity. No doubt more of those undead awaited her in the catacombs: however, the call of adventure was too much to resist. What could this great treasure be that evil powers raised the very dead to protect its secrets? Deciding, she placed the claw in her pack and made a wide circle around the pressure plate as she approached the darkened passageway at the back of the room. It'll be fine, she told herself as she descended into the tomb. Where's the harm in a little adventure?

This was a bad idea! Bad, bad, BAD idea! She chided herself for the fifth time. After dodging several swinging pendulum traps, getting lost in the never-ending catacombs, and having draugr emerge from every coffin, she was ready to get out of this rotten place. Fortunately, she had begun to recognize the signs that a corpse was able to get up and walk around, so she stealthily put them all down before they could rise to combat her. For one, they are always wearing armor, she mused.

After traveling for what felt like an eternity, Schyre came to a large door lined with circular carvings of a moth, a bear, and an owl. Similar to the other animal-carved stones, these were mobile and formed a sort of combination lock. She spun the great rings of the doorway, waiting for the soft click of the grinding stone as its pictures lined up perfectly over the center. After fiddling with the combination for a bit, she recalled the riddle in Arvel's journal. She turned each dial to match the markings on the claw, and after using the claw itself like a turn-key in the center of the door, the heavy stones slid down into the floor, revealing the room beyond. Schyre followed the sound of rushing water to a large open chamber with several waterfalls cascading down the walls. She paused for a moment to enjoy the sheer beauty of the sacred place before she moved towards the center dais. A large ornate chest sat near and ancient coffin.

This must be it, she thought. The treasure of the Barrow! She knelt down to pick the lock when a strange murmuring noise alarmed her. What is that? She froze, fearing the chest was trapped. Is that…chanting? She looked in the direction the sound came from and saw the great wall that loomed behind her. Straightening up, she hesitantly walked toward the carved wall. The stylized face of a dragon leered at her as she approached. The chanting seemed to get louder the closer she got. What are these strange markings- claw marks? There seemed to be a message written in some sort of language. The "letters" looked like so many straight-lined scratches; if they did not have the organization of written language, she would have thought that some great creature was just whimsical while sharpening its claws in solid stone.

The more she stared at the markings, the more she sensed something unspoken at the back of her mind- that she should recognize this. The ghostly chanting was impossible to dismiss the closer she drew to the wall, but more disturbing was that when Schyre focused on the sound, she could make out words: ""Het Nok Faal Vahlon Deinmaar Do Dovahgolz Ahrk Aan Fus Do Unslaad Rahgol Ahrnk Vulom." A shiver went up her spine as she focused on the words- that same inexplicable part of her mind that seemed familiar with this ancient culture offered meaning to the echoing chant: "Here lies The Guardian, keeper of Dragonstone and a Force of Unending Rage and Darkness."

Schyre shook her head quickly, trying to clear her thoughts- this place must be playing tricks on my mind, she thought. Returning her gaze to the wall, she leaned closer to examine the strange slashes when suddenly one small section of the writing began to glow a vibrant white. Swirling magic poured from the word and encompassed Schyre as she tried desperately to bat it away from her. The world around her blurred into obscurity, leaving only the illuminated lettering. In her vision, the shapes quickly grew brighter as some unspoken power overwhelmed her. The marks seared themselves into her brain, like white-hot metal fresh from a forge. Fus. Force. Raw power to move that which would stand against me. As the knowledge flooded into her, Schyre flailed her arms and stumbled backwards - directly into the coffin behind her that exploded from the force of the emerging Draugr Overlord.


	4. Lost and Found

**Thanks to all for the reviews! Greatly appreciate it. ( and secretly feed off of them * nom nom nom*) **Spoiler alerts for "Meeting the Companions"**

**As usual, I own nothing. Get no money for this and have no money for you to take if you decided to sue me, blood from stone and all that.**

**Chapter 4**

**Lost and Found**

Camilla Valerius paced back and forth along the hearth in the Riverwood Trader. It had been several hours since she directed the exotic Argonian woman to Bleak Falls Barrow, and now she feared that she had sentenced her to death. Dusk was rapidly approaching and she had been often peeking out the front door until Lucen complained of the draft. Now, she resorted to wearing a path in the wooden floor of the Trader with her anxiety-driven pacing. "That's not helping," her brother coolly chastised her from behind the counter. "If you have excess energy, sweep the floors; they could use it." Camilla crossly grabbed a broom from the corner of the shop and began taking out her frustrations on the floor. "I should have gone with her," she said to Lucen. "What if she's dead?" "She looked plenty capable to me," he replied while idly dusting the countertop. "Besides, if she ended up getting killed, you wouldn't have lasted two seconds."

Camilla paused in her sweeping to stare daggers her brother, "Lucen! How can you say that? If she's dead, it's on our heads for sending her on that fool's errand in the first place. How many times have I told you not to leave the claw out like that? It's just inviting trouble! You may be able to live with that, but I…" Camilla's remark was cut off as the door to the Trader was opened, letting in a gust of frigid wind that disturbed the dust pile she had been steadily sweeping up. In walked the very Argonian she had been fretting over. Blood-stained and obviously very weary, the warrior approached the counter and without a word pulled the large golden claw from her pack and handed it to Lucen.

Lucen's eyes lit up as he took the claw and placed it lovingly back on the counter. Camilla scoffed at her brother, seeing that he had once again put the GOLD item in plain sight, but he'd always had more pride than sense. She turned her gaze towards the battered Argonian that stood before them. Her once pristine armor was now caked with dried blood and smeared with dirt and Divines only know what else. _Her eyes_, Camilla thought. It was the first thing she had noticed about the Argonian when the woman offered to help them. Bright and calculating, her eyes stood out even among her glittering scales. Now, while they still held the same shrewdness as before, the light behind them seemed diminished. The enthusiastic energy was replaced with the solemnity of having seen too much horror, and even now those images must haunt her behind those eyes.

As Lucen merrily paid her for the task, Camilla tried to gather the courage to say something. The poor woman was obviously bone tired and, given the slight limp when she had walked in, also suffering from injuries. She was about to ask the Argonian to stay for dinner as a way of thanks, but the words died on her lips as the warrior turned and opened the front door to leave. Whether it was the look in her eyes or her own woman's intuition, something made Camilla stop mid-sentence. As the door slowly shut behind her, Camilla wondered what was in the barrow that had affected her so.

Four hundred. Four hundred pieces of gold was what he had given her. Not a paltry sum, but still she wondered if it was worth the cost. The cold, rational part of her brain then chided her for having this ungrateful attitude- had she just left with the claw and not sought adventure beyond that room, the pay would have more than compensated the task. She wanted to know the treasures of the barrow? Well, she knew them now. That cursed Draugr Overlord had a strange stone map marked with more of those claw-scratched letters, and speaking of letters… Schyre slowly ambled towards the Sleeping Giant Inn. Her leg still throbbed where the undead warrior had sliced through her thigh with his great axe. The pain in her leg was nothing compared to the searing pain in her head though. Every time she closed her eyes, the strange slash marks floated in front of her mind's eye, still burning vividly white and drowning her in their ancient power. If she thought about it too much, the sensation would send her reeling again.

_What in Sithis's name happened to me?_ She wondered, pushing open the inn door. The large fire pit in the center of the room felt wonderful as she walked by it. Walking dead, strange magic… She just wanted a hot bath, a cold ale, and to sleep for a full day. Schyre walked to the bar, keen on asking for a private room when a figure stepped out from the shadows. Sven the bard stood, his hands clenched in rage. "What did you tell Camilla?" he demanded, confronting Schyre. "The truth," she said, brushing past him. She reached the bar and sat down. Signaling the barkeep, she inquired about a room while deliberately ignoring Sven. "Ten gold for a room," the barkeep replied, barely looking up from the glass he was polishing. "How much for a hot bath and a hot meal?" Schyre said, counting out the gold onto the countertop. The barkeep finally looked up from his task. "Ten for both," he stated before turning his attention to the tavern maid, "Delphine! Prepare a hot bath and get a plate of that roast over here to our guest."

Sven loomed close to Schyre, trying, and failing, to be intimidating. "I demand satisfaction!" he yelled at her. "Best satisfy yourself then, friend," Schyre commented before taking a swig from the ale the bar maid had brought her, "Because you certainly won't get any from Camilla." She was just about to take another drink when the blow from Sven's fist connected with her jaw and sent her sprawling off the stool. She landed with a heavy thud on the tavern floor as the inn went suddenly quiet. Rubbing her jaw as she slowly stood, she faced the bard who was advancing for another round. Schooling her temper, she spoke in a low tone to Sven, offering him one chance to escape, "Do you really wish to do this, bard? I'm not exactly in the best of moods right now." "You'll pay for what you did to me!" he yelled, taking another quick swing at her. Schyre was barely able to sidestep the attack with her injured leg hampering her mobility. "What I did?" Schyre inquired incredulously, quirking her brow ridge, "Surely you mean what you did to yourself?"

Several patrons of the bar were gathering around now, all cheering for a fight. Schyre resolved to finish this quickly so she could eat her meal, bathe and go to bed. That was her intent anyway, but to her surprise Sven was a much better fighter than a bard. She thought a few well-placed right hooks would have him yielding before he knew what hit him. If nothing else, Sven turned out to be a testament to Nord hardiness. He shrugged off some of her best blows and managed to stagger her a few times. In the end, even though direct combat wasn't her strong suit, experience gave her the advantage in the fight, despite being hindered with an injured leg. The fight seemed to last an eternity, but finally Sven was on the ground, just as bloody and panting as heavily as Schyre. The crowd cheered at the good fight and the gamblers exchanged gold for the wagers they had placed. Schyre offered Sven a hand to help him to his feet, but she was not surprised when he smacked it away. As the shamed bard stormed out of the inn, she positioned herself back at the bar and hungrily dug into the plate of roasted rabbit and root vegetables presented to her.

It wasn't until much later, after she had bathed, finished healing, and readied herself for bed, that all the unanswered questions came back to torment her. How did she understand those creatures? What caused the magic on the wall to assail her? Was she cursed? Had she angered some primitive god by going into the catacombs? What was going to happen to her now? Why did the marks still burn behind her eyes? What did it all mean? Finding neither solace nor answers in the night, she exited her room for one more drink at the bar. She crawled onto the stool and motioned to the barkeep who slid an ale across the countertop to her awaiting hands. Shuddering as she took a drink, Schyre managed to finish half the mug. She had no love for ale; the taste was too bitter and tart for her liking, but she just wanted to relax and forget the events of the day so she could sleep.

Orgnar the barkeep came over to check on her after a while. She had drunk two more ales and he wanted to keep a paying customer well supplied. "Another ale?" he questioned. Schyre made a dismissive gesture with her hand. She was having enough trouble getting, much less keeping, this one down. _Still_, she mused, _this is better-tasting than most alchemic reagents_. "Heard you went to the Barrow and got ol' Lucen his claw back." Orgnar stated. "Aye," Schyre said, taking another swig, "And I'd be grateful if we didn't talk about it." He shrugged, "Just impressive, that's all. Taking down all those bandits and surviving the Barrow. Thought you might be interested in some work. The Jarl's men dropped this off the other day." He passed a slip of paper to Schyre, who flipped open the bounty notice and read it earnestly:

Notice:

To the Attention of all of Skyrim's sons and daughters.

Reward!

100 gold for the slaughter of the Giant in TumbleArch Pass.

Present proof the deed to the Esteemed Jarl of Windhelm

Or his steward for reward.

There was a crude drawing at the bottom showing the location of the Pass as well as Windhelm. Schyre made note of the locations and tucked the bounty notice into her pocket. "You have my thanks," she stated. "Know of any more?" Orgnar shrugged, "Mainly just the odd rumor here and there. Supposedly this kid in Windhelm named Aventus Aretino is trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood." Scyre choked on the last of her ale as she heard this. "I know, kids these days," Orgnar said, ignoring Schyre's coughing, "When I was a kid, you wanted someone dead you didn't hire someone to kill them- you took your father's axe and beheaded them yourself."

Schyre finally managed to stop choking and took her leave, plodding back to her room. _What could make a child want to summon the Brotherhood_, she pondered. Schyre bolted the door behind her and stripped off her armor. She climbed under the blankets and stared into the darkness. She hadn't been aware that a chapter of the Brotherhood existed here in Skyrim. Her heart leapt a little in her chest. Maybe Veezara is here? _No, don't be foolish, he could be anywhere_, she thought. Veezara never spoke about the Dark Brotherhood during his one visit. Whether that was from personal choice or sworn secrecy, Schyre didn't know and was wise enough not to pry. Still, it was nice to think about the possibility. A familiar face would be a welcome sight after all she had been through these last few days. _Maybe he could help me figure out what's h__appening to me,_ she reflected.

Her last thoughts before sleep were her contemplation of going after the bounty for the giant. The gold she had was a good start, but she would need a lot more to make this country her home. She made a mental list of all the supplies she would need. Her meager earnings of the day were quickly absorbed by the time she went through the first quarter of her list. Sighing, she resolved herself to go giant-hunting right after she went to speak with the Jarl of Whiterun about the dragon attack. Then, hopefully, she would have amassed enough gold to be properly equipped and head towards Rifton to join the Thieves' Guild. Satisfied with her plan and not wanting to think any more about her unanswerable questions, she drifted into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Schyre rounded the river bend at a quick jog, spying what could only be Whiterun in the distance. Her breath froze in the air, and while the cold was mildly tolerable, she realized she would need to buy another Ring of Frost Resistance if she was to travel any further north. The trip to Whiterun thus far had been rather uneventful. She tangled with a few wolves and ran into a group of guards escorting a prisoner, but that was the extent of the trouble. Schyre was more fascinated by the wealth of alchemic ingredients she found along the way. The trip was probably taking twice as long as necessary simply because she kept wandering off the path to collect mushrooms, flowers and to chase the occasional bug. At times she had drifted so far off the road that she had to climb down some the rocking outcroppings to redirect her course. She cut across some wheat fields where workers toiled and passed a small farm while heading towards the city.

Whiterun stood among the plains, a great shining fortress and sanctuary from the elements and creatures of Skyrim. Schyre had found the road again and was walking up towards the stables when a flash of cerulean blue caught her eye. A blue butterfly! Schyre was ecstatic; when combined with the blue mountain flowers she had been gathering, she could craft a very profitable potion of Fortify Conjuration. This would be one step closer to getting the money she needed to properly outfit herself. She crouched and sprang like a young Khajiit, grasping at the air in a desperate attempt to snag the elusive butterfly. The delicate insect deftly fluttered away from her grasp, just inches beyond her reach.

Schyre cursed her numb fingers, thoroughly convinced that if not for the cold, she would have caught it that time. She was not about to let it escape her though- she used to be the lead hunter for her tribe, and she _would_ take down her prey, dammit! The insect led her on a wild chase, taking her further and further away from Whiterun and towards a large farm. Finally, she clasped both hands around the butterfly, restraining it carefully to avoid damaging the delicate wings. She artfully plucked them from its body and placed her prizes in an empty potion vial, completely oblivious as a red-haired woman with streaks of war paint across her face came dashing up to her. Startled, Schyre looked up from her alchemic daydreaming as the woman addressed her. "I am Aela the Huntress!" she stated proudly, "Member of the Circle of Companions. Champion of the Hall of Jorrvaskr. Were you too cowardly to brave the giant and help us defeat him?"

_What exactly is she hunting in that outfit? _Schyre wondered, staring at the woman's revealing attire. The woman had a curvy yet muscular frame adorned with a few furs and cleverly placed cloth. _How is she not freezing? And a giant? What giant? _Schyre cringed inwardly when she saw the body of a fallen giant not 200 paces away. Two of the woman's companions- a burly dark-haired man and a rather mousey looking woman were steadily approaching. _How could I have missed that?_ she thought aghast.

Schyre wasn't sure if it was all the titles, the lack of clothing, or the woman's demeanor, but she found herself to be immediately inhospitable to the woman's questioning. Since "Sorry, I was too busy chasing a butterfly to even notice the giant" didn't seem like the best response, she shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "You seemed like you could handle it." Aela scoffed, "Great! Another milk-drinker! I suppose it is fortunate we felled the creature before it slaughtered you!" _Milk drinker? Did she just call me a Khajiit?_ Schyre bristled, "Hardly! I happen to be an excellent shot! Perhaps I just don't like to stick my nose in other people's business, unlike some people!"

The large man had caught up to them and let out a deep resounding laugh at Schyre's comment. Aela looked shocked for a moment, then chuckled lightly. "Hmm... Perhaps you have some spirit after all. Very well, if you ever truly want to test your mettle as a warrior, meet with Kodlak at Jorrvaskr. We'll see if you are worthy to join the ranks of the Companions." With that, the huntress sprinted towards Whiterun with the other woman following behind her like a lost pup. Only the man lingered for a moment. Stocky and strong, he was built like a true Nord: all muscle, with large forearms that easily hefted the great axe he wielded. The black war paint smeared across his eyes was running slightly from perspiration, mimicking the long unruly black hair that hung in his face. Dark stubble lined his square jaw, accenting the angles of his face. Despite his intimidating appearance, his smile was open and utterly disarming as he spoke to Schyre in a deep baritone, "Been a while since I've seen someone talk to Aela like that. Don't mind her. She's tough, but she means well."

"Farkas!" Aela had stopped in the middle of the field and was looking rather exasperated. The Nord turned to look at her, never losing his big silly grin. "Hurry up, you lug! I'm not waiting around here all day for you!" she called, obviously annoyed at his dallying. Farkas shrugged. "See? She's not so bad," he commented while gesturing to Aela. All Schyre saw was a grinning idiot being bossed around by a harpy, but she nodded at the man just the same. Farkas' grin got wider. "You should join our family. We fight good fights and do good-"

"Farkas!" Aela called, the warning in her voice unmistakable. Farkas managed to look properly chagrined this time, "Uh... Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe I'll see you at Jorrvaskr? Bye." With that he bounded through the field to Aela's side and they headed towards Whiterun

That was…odd. Schyre thought as she watched the trio disappear into Whiterun. She then decided to inspect the giant's body they had left to rot. She had never seen one up close before; her only knowledge of their appearance came from crude drawings in books. The giant was massive, pale-gray skinned and artistically scarred with some sort of tribal designs. An uprooted tree served as its cudgel, still gripped tightly in a hand that was easily twice the size of her head. _And I'm going to try and kill one of these things,_ she thought cynically. She imagined that hand descending and popping her head open like a ripe snowberry_. I'm going to need a lot of arrows. And luck- a LOT of luck._

She moved around the body to the giant's feet. Its bare feet were calloused and caked in dirt and what looked -and smelled- like dung. A putrid yellowish corn on the big toe oozed something slowly down the side of the foot. It was a great alchemic find: a giant's toe was a rare and versatile ingredient. Schyre eyed the toe warily as she brought her dagger closer, intent on severing it. She grabbed onto the toenail for leverage, fully anticipating having to saw the toe off… until the toenail came off in her hand. _Oh gods be damned, I can't do it!_ She retched, flinging the toenail away. _It's too disgusting; there's no way I'm eating that!_

Brushing her hands off on her armor in disgust, she resolved to just forget about this particular "great find" and proceed with her task of informing the Jarl. Breaking into a jog, she moved through several of the city's smaller fortifications towards her goal.


	5. Dragonborn

**For those that have commented/watched, I thank you for all your support. Even though I'm writing this for my own amusement, I secretly get great joy that other people like it. **

**Typical disclosure: I own nothing, get nothing, and make nothing from this. **

***Spoliers* "Before the Storm" and "Dragon Rising"**

Chapter 5

Dragonborn

Schyre approached the main gate surprised when a guard stepped forth, blocking her path. "The city is closed. Jarl Balgruuf's orders," he stated rather briskly, "Official business only. Sorry miss, but you'll have to-" "Oh good, the Jarl," Schyre cut him off, "I need to speak with him. A dragon attacked Helgen. The people of Riverwood sent me; they're defenseless. I must speak with the Jarl immediately." The guard was awestruck at the report and stammered breathlessly, "A ...A dragon?" "Yes," she replied earnestly, "And for all I know it could be on the way here now. I suggest you not keep me waiting, or else the Jarl will have YOUR head when he finds out you prevented me from warning him."

The guard glanced back at his companions as if to ask what he should do. When neither one of them did anything more than shrug, he sighed and motioned for them to open the gate. "Proceed," he stated half-heartedly. "You'll find the jarl up at Dragonsreach at the top of the stairs in the Cloud District." The gates squeaked open and rewarded Schyre with the view of a bustling town in its prime. The din of a hammer on steel greeted her as she passed a tawny haired woman working the smithy. Small children played tag in the street and up ahead she could make out a small farmer's market. Schyre took an instant liking to the hold and its simple yet rustic beauty. Her mood darkened when she realized these people had no idea what was coming for them. If the dragon attacked now, many innocent people would die before the guards could mobilize. Within seconds, this lovely little town could be reduced to cinders. With a renewed sense of urgency, she sprinted towards Dragonsreach, narrowly avoiding a collision with a few citizens that cursed her as she ran past. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, her leg muscles burned in protest of her hasty climb.

The ornate doors parted before her and Schyre found herself feeling incredibly small and exposed when she entered the grand hall. The vaulted ceilings were so high she doubted that even that giant could reach them if he stood on his tip toes. Large carved oak tables created a path towards the Jarl's throne. A few courtiers dined at the tables, bathed in crimson light from the cooking pit in between the tables. She could see the Jarl slumped languidly in his chair, seemingly bored with the chatter of his steward. Goal in sight, Schyre strode confidently towards the Jarl-until a heavily armed Dunmer swordswoman stepped in her path, sword drawn and pointed directly at her. Schyre stopped instantly, her hand hovering over her dagger as the dark elf addressed her, "No one approaches the Jarl on my watch! State your business." _Ah, afraid of assassins_, Schyre thought dropping her hand and assuming a non- threatening posture as she addressed the Jarl, "I have important news from Riverwood for Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun. A dragon has attacked Hold Helgen and was last seen heading towards Whiterun. Riverwood is defenseless. Your people request additional guards in the event of an attack."

The Jarl stared at her for a moment before gesturing to the Dunmer to lower her sword. "Irileth, enough… So," he drawled, "there's a dragon about? And you have seen this creature yourself?" Schyre began the tale, explaining in as much detail as possible. She then stood by awkwardly as the jarl and his steward argued over reinforcements. The steward, Proventus Avenicci, obviously didn't believe the threat of a dragon attack and urged the jarl to not spread his soldiers too thin, considering they were caught in the middle of a civil war. To Schyre's relief, Balgruuf cut the man off and ordered Irileth to send extra guards to Riverwood at once. Schyre was awarded a fine pair of leather boots with a minor sneak-enhancing enchantment on them for delivering the message. The jarl then personally escorted her to meet the court wizard Farengar Secret-Fire, as the man was their resident expert on dragons.

Proving that there is always an exception to the rule, as much as Schyre liked Whiterun at a first glance, she finally met the first individual that soured her pristine appreciation for the place. Farengar was polite during the introductions while the jarl was there, but as soon as the man left Farengar stated in rather blunt terms that he was always being given "help" that was too dim-witted to be of much use, and he didn't expect Schyre to be any better than her predecessors. Only for the virtue that he is a wizard is he considered their expert on dragons, but he personally doubted their existence. He was dubious at best at hearing the details of Schyre's encounter, and with an exasperated sigh he stated that if he MUST give her a task to "help" in his research, she could always go search for the fabled Dragonstone. It was supposedly an artifact from ancient times that showed the burial sites of dragons.

At the mention of the Dragonstone, Schyre recalled the treasure she obtained from Bleak Falls Barrow. It was a small consolation to be able to interrupt the arrogant man and produce the stone tablet that he doubted even existed. Farengar's eyes widened, instantly recognizing the Dragonstone, and commented to her as he took it that she is definitely a cut above the usual brainless idiots the jarl foisted on him. Faint praise dispensed, the wizard carried the tablet to his desk and immediately set upon poring over it. As the man muttered to himself, Schyre spied an enchanting apparatus in the back of the room. Curiously, she approached the altar and began inspecting it. "Don't touch that unless you know what you're doing," Farengar chastised, "Which you obviously don't." He sighed like her presence was taxing, "Let me show you the basics so you at least don't blow us all up."

After brief-and impatient- instruction, Farengar was convinced she knew at least enough to not let the enchantments go too awry. To enchant something, she'd first have to break down an existing enchantment to intuitively feel how it was constructed. Of course, he himself was an expert enchanter, and would gladly sell her one of his creations for her to learn from. Schyre's patience with the human grew thinner the longer she was in his presence; he was constantly insulting her intelligence, and now he was hitting her in the coin purse. The problem was that she couldn't fault him for it- if she wanted to learn, she'd need an enchanted item to destroy, and he was under no obligation to simply give her anything. She perused his wares and was pleasantly surprised to find a ring of minor frost resistance. It was a bit more money than she'd like to spend on something she was immediately going to break, but to permanently learn this enchantment was a decent sacrifice of her hard-earned gold.

The wizard left her to her own devices, and after going through the steps to learn the enchantment, she crafted her very first bespelled item. She used one of the silver rings she found in the bowels of the barrow as the material component and managed to craft a slightly stronger resist frost ring. Though she heard him mutter, "Mediocre," about the quality of her work, she proudly donned her new ring, deliberately admiring it despite Farengar's opinion. She then turned to the alchemy lab. After experimenting with several of the ingredients she'd found in her adventures through Skyrim, she was soon the proud owner of several powerful poisons, restore health elixirs, and stamina boosting potions. Thinking her task done, Schyre finally turned to leave and was nearly trampled by a running scout. The Nord woman almost doubled over from exhaustion, her face stricken with panic and eyes wide with fear. Panting from exertion and oddly pale-faced despite her run, she uttered one word between gasps: "Dragon!"

Jarl Balgruuf rested his palms on the surface of the sturdy oak table in his war room. With unseeing eyes he stared at a map of Skyrim large enough that it covered almost the entire surface of the table. The map was peppered with numerous little red and blue flags: the locations of holds under both Imperial and Stormcloak rule. The Jarl sighed wearily, running his large hand over his face to wipe away the sweat that beaded there. He had just sent his housecarl and the Argonian to deal with the dragon attacking the Western watchtower. _Dragons!_ he thought. _Just what Skyrim needs right now, with war looming on the horizon._ Jarl Balgruuf considered himself a strong man. At a young age, his sword had helped him cut a path to the Jarl's seat as well as his keen mind and sharp tongue. There wasn't much in this frozen tundra that caused him concern, but the reappearance of dragons… The Jarl was afraid. He was afraid for his country, afraid for his people, and for the uncertain future of all Skyrim.

Balgruuf sat heavily in his chair and gazed at the map, seeing the edges curl and burn in imaginary flames as he thought of the destruction the dragons would bring. No doubt the small squad of soldiers he had sent with Irileth would have arrived by now to assist in taking down the dragon. _Taking down a dragon,_ he scoffed. Would such a thing even be possible? Or had he just sentenced everyone to a painful death? The stuff of legends and fairytales now brought to life and there was no hero such as Olaf One-Eye to save them. He stared blankly at the small solitary gray flag marking Whiterun on the map- his was the only hold that had so far managed to not be swept to one side or the other of this fight. With the dragons returning to the world, he wondered if it would even matter for much longer if the Empire stayed in control or not. It seemed that Ulfric Stormcloak was no longer the most threatening challenge to Skyrim's peace now…

_No! Absolutely not! No, no, no, no_! Schyre thought as she approached the gate leading out of Whiterun. I'm not doing this. Jarl's request or not, she had no desire to face down a dragon. She had seen the chaos caused by one, and this human was asking her to not only stand against but defeat it. Did he have frostbite of the brain? Plus, the only way she had even survived THAT encounter was by hiding like a coward. The Jarl had no idea what they would be facing. Besides, she still had no idea how to kill one_. Can they even be killed?_ she pondered. _Nevermind,_ she dismissed the thought while shaking her head, _it's not my problem_. Let the Jarl send waves of soldiers after the flying beast, for all the good it will do them. Her conscience nagged at her, but she quelled the guilty thoughts by rationalizing she had already gone above and beyond any call of duty by reporting the incident. This wasn't her fight. She had sold her leftover supplies and valuables to some slimy merchant named Belethor and now had just over a thousand gold. Just enough to buy a horse and head towards Windhelm to kill the giant, with a bit left over for a few nights at an inn if she was lucky enough to stumble upon one.

Schrye reached into her pack and extracted a juicy green apple. She strolled towards the stables, happily munching the crisp treat while devising giant-hunting strategies in her mind. She had spent a small amount of gold on provisions for the long journey: some fruit, dried meat, a fur lined bedroll, a water skin, and a hand shovel. While examining the map in the Jarl's war room, she had estimated Tumble Arch Pass to be about a two day ride if she kept a steady pace. Approaching the stable, she flagged down a Nord with a handlebar mustache that was busily grooming a stout brown mare.

"Gal like you needs a war horse I reckon," he stated. Schyre nodded in response. "Name's Skulvar Sable-Hilt." He extended his hand to Schyre, shaking her clawed hand firmly. "Lookin' to shatter records or bones? My beasts can do both." Schyre grinned, enjoying his bravado. "Have any that can run down a giant?" she inquired. Skulvar threw back his head with a hearty laugh. "Now that would be the day! Well now, the horse I have for sale has got a lot of spirit. We've taken to calling her Queen Alfsigr, or just Allie for short. I expect you can name her anything you like once she's yours." He led her over to the brown draft horse he had just been grooming. The mare nickered softly as Schrye extended her hand, palm flat, with the remainder of the apple. The horse swiftly snatched the treat from Schyre, crunching noisily and spraying flecks of apple on the ground as Skulvar and Schyre transacted the purchase. Purse considerably lighter, Schyre mounted the horse and reined the mare to the northeast. She thought briefly and decided to name the horse "Sage" as tribute to Saffron, the mare that had carried her from peril in Cyrodiil.

The afternoon sun was steadily sinking into the evening sky, and with its descent the temperature would soon drop accordingly. Grateful to once again have an enchanted ring, Schyre bundled her cloak around her as the horse picked up a heavy canter at her command. For the first time since she arrived, Schyre was able to sit back and admire the beautiful vistas that Skyrim offered. She was in awe of the great and towering mountain that filled the eastern horizon. Wildflowers speckled the ground, blanketing the earth in a rainbow of colors only outmatched by the sky at sunset. There was no sign of bandits, and only the distant speck of a lone fox chasing a rabbit hinted that danger could lurk about. By comparison to her home back in Black Marsh, this place was practically paradise.

She was about to take back any negative thoughts she had about the country… that was until a great shadow engulfed them. Schyre had just enough warning to prevent being thrown to the ground by her frightened horse. As the pearlescent white dragon descended Sage reared, squealing in terror, and made a sharp turn west. Schyre had lost hold of the reins and was now desperately trying to stop the mare who was galloping full speed in the wrong direction. When tugging on its mane produced no reaction, Schyre decided a wiser course was to devote her strength to merely hanging on. Overhead, the dragon easily kept pace and roared "FO!" spewing ice and frost towards them as Sage thundered across the plains. They soon rode past what could only have been the watchtower the jarl had described, passing Irileth and her guards in a blur.

Irileth saw the Argonian leading the dragon straight towards them and motioned for her archers to fire. A volley of arrows was launched in the air towards the creature; most bounced harmlessly off its plated scales. It did enrage the dragon however, for it broke from its pursuit of Schyre and turned on the Whiterun brigade. The first soldiers it reached were not fortunate. Irileth allowed herself of brief moment of sadness as Tor, a man whom she had served with for six years, was ripped in half by the dragon. Someone would have to tell his wife that he had died bravely. No doubt it would be her. She had no time for any other thought as the dragon took flight again, its frozen breath barely missing her. As she came up from her roll, she spied Schyre continuing towards the west. _Where is she going?_ Irileth wondered as the steed and rider rode past them towards Fort Greymoor. Her anger flared when she realized the Argonian was not stopping. _Coward!_ She fumed. No matter- she would handle this herself. With that, she turned, sword in hand, and faced the wyrm as it rumbled overhead in its evil tongue, "Krin hokoron. Pruzah!"

When Schyre dared a glance behind her, she witnessed the white dragon tearing through their ranks. "Hsk'atd!" she cursed in her native tongue. They were being slaughtered and she had led it right to them. Sage was covered in sweat and foaming; what little energy she had left dwindled rapidly. Schyre had spent a thousand gold on this horse, so there was no way she was taking it to battle a dragon, only to watch her money literally go up in flames… frost… whatever. Finally regaining control over the animal, Schyre guided it towards the old fort that had come into view. _I'll have to sprint back to the tower,_ she thought as she tethered Sage to a ruined part of the wall. Content that her investment was safe from harm, she turned and ran back towards the battle.

"Son of a-" Irileth cursed, hacking at the dragon's thrashing tail. The massive armored tail had sent her second-in-command flying when it has struck him. Irileth doubted he would be able to rejoin the fray anytime soon. Another soldier had gotten too close to the snapping jaws and was currently being rendered into a variety of meaty shapes. Sadly, this seemed the only time the rest of them could get a few good strikes in: when the dragon was distracted by killing one of her men. Suddenly, the dragon whirled on her, jowls smeared with the remains of her troops and fangs bared. Time seemed to slow as the dragon's neck arched back, its glistening scales flashing briefly as it inhaled deeply. Unable to dodge in time, she could only stare in mute horror as the dragon aimed its deadly breath at her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the inevitable blow… but it never came. Instead, she heard a grunt and a strangled coughing "Yol…" as weakened blasts of hot air rolled over her. Daring to take a look, she saw the dragon clawing at its jaw while shaking its head back and forth. Thanking Azura for the divine intervention, she flanked the beast and renewed her assault. When the creature reared its head up to roar in frustration, she spied the broken shaft of an arrow lodged deeply in its throat.

_This is crazy. I've gone nuts_, Schyre thought, _completely insane!_ She continued the train of thought repeatedly as she fired another arrow at the dragon from her perch on the broken stone wall. The guards were making some progress on wearing the dragon down, but with each blow that glanced off its armor plating, they were losing valuable time and men. The dragon reared, roaring its rage to the mountains and sending the surrounding guards sprawling to the ground. Its immense webbed wings stretched skyward and began flapping earnestly. _No!_ Schrye thought circling to the back of the dragon. If it became airborne again and used its devastating breath weapons, many more lives would be lost. Without thinking of the consequences, Schyre leapt on the dragon's back. She was buffeted by the flapping appendage, but nevertheless managed to plunge her dagger into the wing's membrane. Angling the blade down, she turned her attention to falling safely next to the creature, used her body weight to slice clean through the webbing in the process. No longer able to catch any updrafts in its left wing, the dragon flapped around clumsily just over the ground before stabilizing itself and landing.

Schyre was halfway up the stairs of the tower, raining down poison-laced arrows when the dragon trained its eyes on her. With a bloodthirsty roar, the dragon launched itself onto the staircase, clawing his way towards her, gnashing blood-stained teeth. "Kril mal gein, hin dinok fin ofan Mirmulnir zin," it hissed, barely missing her ankle as she back-peddled up the stairs. Some small part of her brain registered that she had understood him. Yes him. Not it. The dragon was male. "Brave little one, your death will give Mirmulnir honor." He honored her bravery and gave his name- Mirmulnir. The strange, knowing part of her mind knew what his name meant: Allegiance-Strong-Hunt.

The stairs beneath the dragon began to crumble under his weight, sending chunks of rock crashing to the ground, preventing any of the other guards from following. Schyre was on her own and Mirmulnir was gaining. Futilely, she tried to navigate the stairs backwards, not daring to turn her back on the dragon. Her heel caught the edge of another step and she was unable to stop her fall. Landing ungracefully on her rear, she grabbed for her last arrow even as she prepared for the worst. The dragon Mirmulnir loomed over her, savage triumph in his gaze as she knocked her arrow for one final shot. His cold, ancient eyes suddenly widened in surprise. "Dovahkiin?" he growled, startled at the realization. Schyre didn't respond; instead, she let her final arrow fly, plunging it straight into the dragon's molten eye. "Dovahkiin, no!" the creature howled as it fell from the ruined stairs. With a resounding crash, the dragon's body came to a rest, barely twitching at the base of the watch tower.

Schyre finally let out the breath she had been holding. She vaguely acknowledged the cheering of the remaining guards as she lay back on the stairs, panting like she'd been fighting for days. She couldn't seem to suck air in fast enough and her lungs screamed at her impatiently. After a short while, she willed her body to respond and began to climb down the damaged tower. _I did it!_ She thought as she slid down the remaining stairs toward the ground. _We did it! We actually killed a dragon!_ She landed next to the corpse and touched him gently. She almost felt… remorseful. She had never regretted a kill before. He was so beautiful and majestic: engineered to deadly perfection, the perfect hunter. _I respected him_, she thought wondrously. Even in death his scales still shown radiantly. And he had spoken to her with respect for an enemy. Wait… spoken? As she retracted her hand in shock and disbelief, the dragon's body began to glow and burn away, sending swirling wisps of golden colored light towards Schyre. _No, not again!_ She thought in a panic as she was completely enveloped in shimmering light.

The energy surrounded her in a cloak of warmth before entering her body. The experience momentarily altered her state of mind, drawing her attention inward to focus on the sensations of the union. The absorption of the light made her feel weightless and calm, and in a strange way exalted as the ancient power bowed to her, becoming hers to command. After a few seconds, the transfer was complete. Schyre blinked rapidly, trying to clear the afterglow of dancing lights from her eyes. She thought she had blacked out for a moment, but she was still standing in the field near the broken-down tower when her vision cleared. She also found herself to be the center of attention. The remaining guards were looking at her with expressions varying from shock to disbelief. She could hear the world "Dragonborn" being whispered from a few awestruck guards. "Dragonborn?" Schyre turned when she realized a guardsman was addressing her. He stood with his mouth agape, staring at her. Schyre was suddenly very uncomfortable with all the reverence. "In all my years," he began, "I never thought I'd get to see the Dragonborn!"

"You've taken one too many blows to the head, Borje," another guard countered. "The Dragonborn is nothing but a story sung by bards. If that's the Dragonborn, then my mother was a yak." Guardsman Borje gestured to the remains of the dragon, now nothing more than a smoking pile of bones littering the earth. "I've seen your mother, Leiv, and that's not far from the truth. She absorbed its very soul. We all saw that." He turned to Schrye. "Try a Shout!" "Umm… I'd rather not," Schyre answered. Shout? What does that mean? But even as she questioned it, she felt the power. The marks seared into her brain flared briefly before her eyes. Fus. Force. Instinctively, she knew all she had to do was call on the power, and it was hers to wield.

Irileth sheathed her blade and approached the group, never breaking a smile or any other hint of conquest on her face, "Enough of this. We don't need to discuss whether or not some legendary hero exists or not. What we do know is that we have a dead dragon here, which means they can be killed. I'm going to report to the Jarl. He'll want to know of our victory." To Schyre directly, she commented lightly, "I suggest you come as well." Orders given, she briskly turned on her heel and marched towards Whiterun. The remaining guards that had traveled with her from Whiterun all fell in step behind her, leaving the ruined watchtower. Schyre rubbed her arms as she watched the soldiers leave. Her scales crawled from the lingering magic, creating the sensation of a thousand tiny insects wiggling just under her skin. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn. That is what Mirmulnir had called her. A flash of memory conjured the image of the leather-bound book she had picked up from the torture chamber in Helgen. She felt the fool for not reading the book before selling it to that greasy merchant Belethor. She made a mental note to go buy it back from him. _Probably at three times the selling price,_ she thought irked.

The crawling sensation finally abated, and since she was getting tired of all the whispers and stares, Schyre decided it was time to collect Sage and head back for her audience with the Jarl. Leaving the tower behind her, she started an easy jog back to the ruined fort. _I wonder what kind of reward I'll get for slaying the dragon?_ she mused. _Maybe a fine house, or a powerful weapon... Oooh, maybe a title with land and servants? _Schyre's thoughts of riches and fame shattered as she approached the fort. Where's my horse? She scanned the area where she left Sage and saw nothing. As she came closer to the fort, she saw her mare a short distance away- dead, with several arrows piercing her body. Schyre threw her head back and cursed so loudly that the guards back at the tower flinched, thinking another dragon roamed the skies.


	6. Cause & Effect

Chapter 6

Cause and Effect.

_Thane._ Schyre stormed out of Dragonsreach, purposely slamming the carved double doors behind her. She deftly took the stairs two at a time, eager to get distance between her and civilization lest she do something she would regret. Ever since she killed that damned dragon things had gone awry. Upon entering the town, a booming, thundering voice had yelled "DOVAHKIIN!" so loudly she nearly jumped out of her scales. She had drawn her weapon, looking for the source of danger only to sheathe it when she saw some of the guards looking at her like she was an idiot. As she walked toward the cloud district, she noticed more and more people coming out of their homes, staring at her and whispering amongst themselves. Even the marketplace came to a complete standstill; merchants and customers alike watching her every move. Schyre ignored them as best she could while quickening her pace.

When she finally made it to Dragonsreach, Jarl Balgruuf was more than disgruntled about her late arrival. After a scathing glare, he had her recount the events that had led the dragon's demise. She confessed that she had absorbed some kind of power from the dragon and that the men had called her "Dragonborn." Jarl Balguurf contemplated this for a moment then proceeded to inform her she had been summoned by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar. It was a rare and great honor to be called by them, and she was to report as soon as possible to their sanctuary for training. Trying to delicately change the subject to something more important to her, Schyre patiently explained that she had killed each and every bandit that resided in Fort Graymoor in retaliation for killing her horse. She hoped that he would offer to reimburse her for the animal she lost while fighting the dragon HE requested her to defeat, or at the very least some sort of reward for clearing the place of bandits, but he just continued to tell her that she should be honored by the Greybeards' invitation. She was given the title Thane of Whiterun, which by his own admission was mostly just a ceremonial title and held no real power, a housecarl, and an axe before being summarily dismissed.

She was so furious she didn't even recall exiting the town, yet found herself pacing the outskirts of the Battle-Born farm. The Jarl's little request to kill a dragon had cost her greatly. In time, money, and her invested horse. Surely, she thought, he will reward me generously for such a great feat! Instead, she got saddled with a useless title and the "privilege" to buy property- should she have 6000 gold to spare. He did give her the Axe of Whiterun, an enchanted battle axe, but it was so cumbersome Schyre knew she would have no use for it with her fighting style. It all left her very confused and frustrated with the customs of Skyrim. Back in Black Marsh, had she accomplished such a feat, she would have been greatly rewarded. She would have been presented with gifts, a fine home, a feast, and been blessed by the clan shaman. Stories about her deed would have been told by for generations and her name would be bestowed upon the most important hatchlings in the clan. Instead, not only was she was NOT compensated for her losses, she was "awarded" a housecarl that she didn't know what to do with. She was already struggling to keep up with enough supplies and food to take care of herself- how in the world was she supposed to take care of a servant as well?

She had lugged as much cheap armor as she could carry back from Fort Graymoor to sell in Whiterun, but she was still in the hole about eight hundred gold. After dealing with Belethor again and buying back the Dragonborn book (as she predicted at three times the cost), she was in a rather foul mood. She sold the great "Axe of Whiterun" to that greedy little man and he barely gave her one hundred gold for it. Her only consolation was that she had discovered an elven bow on the bandit leader to replace her worn hunting bow and a plethora of arrows she happily gathered for herself. Still, she supposed she should feel flattered that the Jarl would even allow an Argonian to purchase a homestead within the quaint town, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was getting the raw end of the deal. _I suppose they feel the glory and honor should be reward enough, _she thought begrudgingly. Glory and honor doesn't put food on the table, however… or provide transportation.

It seemed inescapable that her trek would be on foot. Resigned she headed northeast, determined to kill the giant and recoup at least some of her losses. She briefly contemplated taking the housecarl Lydia with her, but another companion meant another mouth to feed and more supplies to purchase. Besides, while she was familiar with hunting in a group back home in the Marsh, those that accompanied her had been hand-selected by her, trained by her, and complimented her fighting style. While the Nord woman seemed capable, Schyre doubted stealth was her strong suit, and the last thing she needed was someone getting in her way. Wishing she still had her horse, Schyre went east.

* * *

Schyre was completely unprepared the first time a dragon attacked her. She had just killed a brown bear that had chased her through the tundra and was happily humming as she separated skin from flesh when she noticed the silence. Even the bugs had stopped chirring, as if the world was holding its breath. While she had no hair to stand on end, her scales began to crawl with apprehension. It was an instinct honed by years of being hunted by predators that hid in the blackness of the Marsh; she felt eyes upon her. Silent as death, the green dragon had glided over her, poised to snag her in its deadly claws. That's when she looked up. Like some forbidden jewel, the dragon gleamed in the sun, its dazzling emerald scales flashing brightly. Every instinct screamed at her to drop the knife and flee, but she found herself frozen in awe and fear. The dragon roared as their eyes briefly locked- a sound of triumph that drowned out her scream.

She had learned two valuable lessons that day- one: daggers are not very effective to fight against dragons without a contingent of guards to back you up. You have to get too close to their snapping jaws and thrashing tail for it to be a useful tool to stay free from harm. Two: flames are ALSO not very effective against dragons that breathe fire. In a moment of panic, she tried to deflect the dragon's assault with the Flames spell to buy her the time needed to reach her bow that had been set aside for the task of skinning her bear. In response, the dragon gave her a lesson on REAL fire, breathing a fiery inferno that scorched the ground bare and nearly incinerated her primary weapon before she could escape with it.

After barely dodging the beast's fiery breath, claws, fangs, and tail, Schyre sensibly retreated and kept running while firing arrows at it until it came crashing down. Thankfully, this dragon was a lot weaker than Mirmulnir, and Schyre was able to defeat him alone and survive the encounter. She did suffer a nasty burn on her left side though where she hadn't quite managed to dodge its fiery blast. As she tenderly pulled the blackened leather that had melted to her scales away from her injury, Schyre saw the green dragon's flesh begin to burn away. She tried to clear enough distance to avoid the swirling magic, but it managed to overtake her and she was once again bombarded with the odd sensations of becoming one with another being. It didn't seem quite as bad as the first time, but it was still disturbing, alien, and unwanted.

Still shaken from the encounter, she continued northeast towards the Pass. When dusk finally settled, she found a rocky outcropping to shelter herself from the wind and bunkered down for the night. She hadn't traveled nearly as far as she hoped she would by now; she estimated that she still had at least another two days to travel. After digging herself a small fire pit, she set a rabbit she shot earlier to roast and tended to her wounds. Later, while picking at the cooked flesh, she removed the book "The Book of the Dragonborn" from her pack and began to read. She had gotten mostly through it when she heard the eerie cry of another dragon. It sounded again, and then again, this time closer. The fire had burned low enough that it was easily snuffed when she kicked dirt on it, sending a plume of black smoke into the night sky. As the last light of the setting sun faded, she crawled further under the rock, praying to Sithis that the creature had not seen her fire. She crouched frozen, not daring to move as it flew high overhead; if it did find her, she would be trapped among these rocks with no escape. The unseen dragon made wide circles overhead, calling every so often in a voice loud enough to send tremors through the rocks. After a long while, it finally gave up searching this area and the cries faded back into the mountains. Schyre was left alone with the disturbing thought that she was what it was hunting for.

* * *

Schyre crept forward at a painstakingly slow pace, the permafrost on the ground muffling her footsteps in the quiet of the night. The giant sat obliviously in front of a bonfire surrounded by large stones, idly scratching his armpit with the tree stump he used as a club. He then picked up a fallen tree and threw it on top of the other burning tree trunks. The fire's hissing and crackling protest at the addition of new tinder masked her steps as Schyre inched closer and closer to the giant. Finesse would be required to bring down this quarry, and she hoped to get close enough to line up the perfect head shot. Finally, she had the perfect vantage point. The glare of the fire shielded her from view, and behind the boulders her arrow was sheltered from the wind. Everything was set. Drawing her bow, she lined up her shot: left temple- a clean kill. She inhaled, holding her breath to focus and steady her arm. The string whispered past her fingertips as she released the arrow, shaft piercing the air, and struck home. The giant groaned and lurched forward, falling to the side.

_Sithis be praised!_ Schyre thought. She got up from her crouch and proudly walked over to the giant to retrieve her arrow. She had just reached out to grab it when the giant's hand clamped over her entire arm. She yelped in surprise, trying desperately to free her arm as the giant slowly stood to his full height, pulling her into the air where her feet dangled helplessly. The arrow was still deeply lodged in his head, but the giant neither seemed to notice nor care. As if in slow motion, he flung her against the boulder she had hid behind and picked up the tree cudgel. Seeing stars and completely winded, Schyre fell to her hands and knees, frantically trying to crawl away. The giant howled in murderous rage, and with surprising speed lunged at her, the tree cudgel smashing the ground in front of her. The next thing she knew, she was flying head over heels through the air, bits of dirt and arrows scattering in all directions. She was offered a panoramic view of Skyrim as her body ascended further and further into the heavens. _Veezara is the last_, she thought with regret as the giant faded to nothing more than a black dot on the landscape. Still tumbling skyward, she hurtled into the blazing sun where her flesh burned away and her soul escaped her body in streams of golden light

* * *

Schyre's eyes snapped open and she gasped in alarm. She sat up, momentarily confused by the quiet darkness surrounding her. She was still nestled in her fur-lined bed roll under the rocky outcropping she had found on the second night of her trek. Even with the ever-growing threat of dragons, when night came she had to chance a fire or risk freezing to death. She had dug herself a small pit under another rock, using the surface to reflect the heat from her campfire. The low-burning fire produced a soft, ambient glow. No giants were present to send her flying. Her tail, however, had gotten too close to the fire and was slightly scorched now. She jerked it away and tucked it back under the covers before turning her gaze out to the twinkling stars. _A dream,_ she slowly realized, relief seeping into her. She listened to the crickets chirp and somewhere off in the distance an elk cried for a mate. She was safe, for now. After a while she laid her head down and drifted back to sleep, hoping the dream was not an omen of things to come.

* * *

Vantus Loreius looked up from his rake, wiping the sweat from his eyes with the edge of his tunic. The many years of toiling under the sun had weathered his skin like an old piece of leather. Like his clothing, he was an uncomplicated man and liked to live simply; tilling his land to supply Whiterun with the vegetables he worked hard to cultivate in the unforgiving soil of Skyrim. It wasn't much, but it was his, and he would die to defend it. It was for that reason he had refused to help the jester. Something wasn't right.

"He still there, Van?" his wife Curwe questioned, shielding her eyes against the sun. She watched the costumed man pace up and down the road next to his broken down wagon, gesturing furiously and talking to himself. He had been there for nearly two hours and was becoming increasingly agitated. "Yup," her husband replied, going back to breaking up the soil. "Van, love," his wife said softly, laying her calloused hand on his arm, "Why don't you help the poor man? He just wants to bury his mother." "Nay, Curwe," he replied, gruffly. "By Mara, there's something wrong with that one. He's up to no good and I won't have anything to do with it." Vantus turned and glared at the jester, who now appeared to be talking to the large crate fastened to the back of his broken down wagon. He shook his head. Crazier than a three-legged fox, that one. Who knew what he was smuggling? Skooma? Weapons? Something definitely illegal with how erratic he was acting. Innocent merry men hadn't visited this part of Skyrim in years, and Vantus didn't work this hard only to lose everything for helping a stranger.

He spied another figure walking up the road. Like his wife, he followed suit and used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Huh? An Argonian. Strange. Don't typically see the lizard folk out here. Especially one so heavily armed. Vantus smirked a bit when he saw the jester run up to the Argonian and begin stomping his feet like a child throwing a tantrum, gesturing emphatically. Good. Let the lizard deal with the nutter. He had crops to tend. And so he did.

* * *

The dragons WERE hunting for her. Schyre was sure of that now. Every time she turned around one was on her tail, sometimes literally. She had been so careful, but it was almost impossible to sneak past one; it was like they felt her presence somehow. She had to kill another one earlier this morning. The night before, she had found another outcropping and used her small shovel to dig herself in. That precaution was her saving grace, for when she awoke at dawn the beast was already in the vicinity of her refuge. Perched above her shelter and sunning itself like some great bird, the dragon had been scanning the area for her. It had known she was there somewhere. Had its rumbling breath not alerted her, she would have emerged and been eaten instantly.

At least, she thought, it seems to be getting a little easier. While she certainly wasn't eager to face another dragon, she was starting to come up with strategies to help dispatch them more efficiently. Since she had fought three already, she noticed similar patterns in their behavior and her natural hunting skills had developed some tactics that could prove useful when she encountered another; the fact that it would happen again was a forgone conclusion already. Schyre yawned as she walked down the stone road. She had gotten very little sleep the last two nights and needed to be at her best to take down the giant. Tumble Arch Pass was only a day's travel away and she didn't dare sleep in the open until she found a way to better conceal herself. It was a small blessing to spy the farmhouse off in the distance. Though it was a bit of a detour, Schyre hoped she could find some refuge within the quaint dwelling. At least enough for a decent night's sleep.

Up ahead she spied a broken down wagon, its axel twisted and wooden wheel lying sideways on the path. A man in strange garb stood by the wheel, staring at it while pulling at the two long tails of his hat, as if trying to will the wheel to spring to life and repair itself. "Enough!" the man yelled at the inanimate object. "Cicero doesn't have time for this! Sweet mother is waiting. Poor sweet mother. Yes. We have to hurry. So up! Up, I say!" When the wagon wheel predictably didn't respond, the jester began cursing and kicking the wheel. Schyre would have found it quite funny... if it wasn't so thoroughly disturbing. Tentatively she cleared her throat, unsure of how to approach the obviously deranged jester. "Problem?"

The jester- Schyre assumed his name was Cicero- turned as if seeing her for the first time. "AAGH!" he shrieked dramatically, "Bother and befuddle. Stuck here! My mother, poor mother. Unmoving! Poor Cicero is stuck! Can't you see? I was transporting poor mother. Well, not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead, you see. But we will be late! Late for her own funeral. We mustn't keep them waiting! But no one will help poor Cicero!" The jester's face suddenly contorted with rage so intense Schyre unconsciously took a step back. "And we asked SO nicely. But he refused to help us! The farmer! So we are stuck!" He blinked as if he forgot he was talking to Schyre, and then his features changed again to an overly dramatic expression of sorrow and pity, "Won't you please help poor Cicero? He only wants to take mother home."

Schyre sighed inwardly. Of all the people she could have met on the road, why did she have to cross paths with a lunatic? Still, she couldn't blame the poor guy for wanting to bury his mother. It was the last thing she could hope for should she get burnt to a cinder in a dragon's flames: that some kind soul would find her ashes and scatter them to the wind with at least a little respect. Not loot her corpse and leave her to rot on the tundra or feed vermin. "Very well," she replied. "What do you need?" The jester's jaw dropped, forming a perfect O with his lips and looking quite surprised. Then he sprang up and danced an odd jig around Schyre while shrieking in his sing-song voice, "Oh happy day! Happy Day! You have made Cicero so very VERY happy! Go! Go to the farm, because that is where the farmer lives! Where else would he be? Tell him to help poor Cicero. I'll give you gold for your trouble. Shiny, pretty, clinky gold! You'll like that."

_I regret this already_, Schyre thought. There was something off about that man and his mother. Not just the fact that he was crazy, but something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Like he was familiar in some way. Shrugging, she continued up the path, towards the farm... because that's where the farmer lives, and where else would he be indeed.

* * *

Schyre stood over the cooking pot helping Curwe finish preparing the evening meal. The farmers had graciously allowed her stay for the evening after she helped them harvest their vegetables and finish tilling the field. The jester Cicero had left a few hours ago; it took a bit of persuasion, but Schyre convinced Vantus to repair the wagon wheel. Peace returned to the farm, and Schyre hoped it would stay that way. She contributed the remains of her rabbit to the stew since fresh meat was a luxury the Loreius family could rarely indulge in. In exchange, she was offered a small pallet covered in hay near the wall as her bed. It would not be the best night's sleep, but she had fared far worse in the recent past.

Conversation was sparse as the dined. Schyre dropped a warning as casually as she could about the dragons, but since neither one of them had seen any, they took the news with a grain of salt. The war seemed a touchy subject, so Schyre was left to her thoughts as she contemplated the events of the past couple of days. She sat on the pallet and pulled out the book, vainly hoping to gain some clarity on what this whole Dragonborn business meant. So far, the book had not been helpful. She only had a few pages to go before the end and was hoping for some kind of epiphany. _Like how to quit being the Dragonborn_, she thought bitterly. When she finally finished the book, she slammed to cover shut so loudly that Curwe jumped and looked up from her knitting. "Sorry," Schyre muttered, getting up. She carried the book to the hearth and fed it to the flames.

Nothing. It had told her nothing at all useful. Not a word about how one became Dragonborn or what one was supposed to do with it. Just riddles and fables. _They were mistaken, _she thought, leaning on the hearth, basking in the warmth and watching the book burn. _They have to be… I'm not this Dragonborn. I can't be. I don't even know what that is. Or what I'm supposed to do with it. _Of course her denial didn't explain the dragon soul-stealing capabilities she had suddenly developed. Or the innate understanding the dragon language. She decided to blatantly ignore those facts. _No, _she thought. _I'm not a hero. I'm NOT the Dragonborn! I'm jus… just… me. Let them find someone else to be their savior. _Feeling suddenly very weary, Schyre curled into the fetal position on her hay and fell sound asleep.

* * *

The snow crunched under her foot for the fifth time and Schyre fought a surge of panic again that the giant might hear her. _I hate snow, _she thought miserably. She had arrived at Tumble Arch Pass a little before dusk. Though the trek was uneventful, it had snowed at least two inches during the day and the white powdery flurries blanketing the earth made it harder to sneak. After scouting the area, Schyre had picked the best vantage point to line up a shot: a large oblong boulder that over hung the giant's campsite. She had circled the camp warily and was slowly inching her way towards the boulder. She made a face as she skirted around a colossal pile of mammoth dung and finally reached the edge of her cover. _Only a few more feet, _she thought. The boulder was located to the right of the large bonfire that the giant patrolled around. Luckily, it was tall enough that even the giant couldn't reach her if her first arrow didn't do the trick. After that nightmare, Schyre really didn't want to take any chances in case one arrow wasn't enough.

She slowly stepped to the base of the boulder and started the painstakingly slow ascent. Ice coated the rock and despite the rather craggy surface, Schyre found herself sliding backwards on a few steps. Finally, she reached the peak and stretched flat on her stomach, slithering the remaining way up the rock. She peeked over the edge and spied the giant below, idly walking around the fire pit swinging its club to and fro. As she silently equipped her bow she noticed a peculiar odor. _What is that awful smell?_ She thought, resisting the urge to gag. A few paces away, large skin sacks of mammoth cheese sat curdling off to the side of her rock, their putrid smell wafting up to her. _Yuck. Let's get this over with_.

Eyes to her prey, Schyre now saw that this giant was huge; he even looked bigger than the one she had seen in Whiterun. Suddenly she wasn't so sure if just one arrow would work… or ten arrows for that matter. That and she was freezing. Despite the fact that she still wore her resist frost ring, the fresh snow fall, strong winds, and ice-cold rock beneath her belly had been steadily sapping her strength. Perched on the boulder as she was, she had no shelter from the elements and her fingers began to ache from the cold. She drew her bow, attempting to will her hands to stop shaking. She lined up a shot… and missed. "Hn?" the giant grunted as the arrow landed near his feet. Schyre quickly rolled off the top on the boulder and back to the stone, digging her heels into the rock to prevent her from sliding all the way down the ground. Below, she could hear the giant rage as it looked around for its assailant. Terror gripped her as she clung for her life, waiting for the giant to round the boulder and smash her into paste. It never happened. After a few minutes of unintelligible yelling, the giant quieted and shuffled off to one of his cheese vats. Schyre dared a quick look around and saw the giant shoveling handfuls of mammoth cheese in his mouth with his bare hands like nothing ever happened. _Short attention span_, she thought, logging that tidbit away for future use.

Schyre tried to maneuver herself back onto her stomach, but began sliding slowly down the rock face. With a squeak of panic, she dug her gloved hands into any crevice she could find purchase in. After falling only a short way down, she stabilized herself enough to take her hands from the rock. Peeking around the boulder's edge, she confirmed that the giant had not heard her. She carefully readied another arrow and let it fly. This one did strike the target… in the rear. _Well, that's not where I was aiming. Crap! _The giant howled so loudly that the snow blanketing the rocks around her fell to the ground. Schyre decided she wasn't waiting to see what happened next. She slid all the way down the rock and shot another arrow at the giant: this time hitting him square in the thigh. He whirled on her, spittle flying from his crooked stained teeth as he screamed in pain and rage. Abandoning his cheese, the giant hobbled at an alarmingly fast rate towards Schyre, wielding its tree-trunk club menacingly.

Using the boulder as cover, Schyre fired another arrow into the giant's chest. It stuck in his left pectoral with a dull thud, barely slowing him down. _Son of a -! How many arrows until it dies? _Schyre raced around the base of the boulder, keeping it between her and the giant as she sniped it before ducking back behind cover. This was a deadly game of peek-a-boo. The giant swung his club at her each time she shot him, striking the boulder and sending chunks of rock and splinters of wood flying. Schyre managed to dodge the worst of the damage from his club to scurry to her next attack point and hit him with another arrow. Almost two dozen arrows later, the giant finally collapsed to the ground, bleeding from multiple wounds. Schyre shot a few more arrows into the body, just to be sure it was completely dead before approaching

Once she was sure it would not reanimate and crush her, she went to work looting the body and retrieving her arrows. _All in all, not a bad haul! _Schyre thought, picking over her findings. She had found some animal pelts, lock picks, an ebony helmet and a few gemstones and ingots. _Definitely more trouble than 100 gold though, _she mused, but she was pleased with the items she found, especially the pelts which would allow her to customize her armor more. _Gloves, _she thought contemplatively while flexing her frozen hands. _Fur-lined with a marksman enchantment if I can find one. Now, proof for the Jarl. _She moved around the body, trying to decide what she should bring for proof of the deed. _Club? No, to heavy. Toe? Yech! Tried that and no! Ear? _Schyre moved to the giant's head and peered at its ear. The size and color would mark it as a giant's with no doubt. It was a little gross with hair growing from the canal and some frozen earwax clinging to it, but it was a far lesser evil than anything else she could think to bring.

She severed her trophy quickly and wrapped it safely in one of the pelts. _Isael would probably be yelling at me for leaving another toe behind, _she thought with a small chuckle. She envisioned the cranky elf lecturing her, while every other word complaining about how bitterly cold it was and demanding that she do something about it. _He would have hated it here_, she mused sadly. The wind howled through the rocks of the pass, producing a haunting sound. Schyre looked about the tundra as the wind blew the snow in swirling patterns across the expansive plains, suddenly feeling very isolated. Only a few mammoths grazed the land, dark spots against a white background that seemed to have no end. _I'm lonely, _she realized in surprise. She had always been surrounded by people, whether it was her clan, her hunting party, or even in her travels with Isael. Out here, she had no one. If she was to die, right here, right now, no one would even mourn her loss. She had no one to trust, no one to confide in about all the strange things that had been happening to her. Unbidden, the words of the dark-haired Companion came to mind: "You should join our family." She shook her head. Why, of all things had she thought of that? Family. Veezara. _Where are you?_ Schyre's heart ached as she began trudging away from the giant's camp, soon disappearing over the horizon.

* * *

The light in the Windhelm war room was dim, but more than enough to see the large map stretched out and anchored to the table by four daggers thrust into each corner. Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric Stormcloak, and his steward Jorlief were gathered in the musty room, each studying the map with varying degrees of emotion. The bear pelts decorating his Stormcloak officer's uniform were more for signaling his station as second-in-command for Windhelm than to keep the cold at bay. With the weight of his ever-present battle axe resting assuredly on his back, he leaned over to point at the solitary gray flag on the map of the country divided into Imperial and Stormcloak loyalties; the only undecided one was the hold in the center of the continent, the hold of Whiterun. "It has been too long, Ulfric. Every other hold has decided their loyalties- those to the east are the true sons and daughters of Skyrim and have rallied under the Stormcloak banner. Those to the west have sided with the Imperials and now only wait for our axe to cut off their heads. The people of Skyrim need a true leader that will rule with the honor and strength of our forefathers, not the cowards that bend their knees and necks to their pointy-eared slave owners. The jarl of Whiterun should not need so much time to decide where his loyalty is- he will either join us to throw off the shackles of Imperial oppression, or he will fall with the rest of them that accept the yoke of a false emperor."

Looking earnestly into the eyes of his friend and jarl, Galmar continued earnestly, "Just say the word, and Whiterun will fly Stormcloak colors before the sun sets. The hold is not as impregnable as Balgruuf would believe." He resumed pointing at strategic spots on the map, "The archers will use flaming arrows to set the battlements aflame while the brigade uses the distraction to move the ladders into position. It will only take a single man to get the gate open, and then our main forces can advance behind the walls."He continued discussing his strategy to overrun the central town and Dragonskeep, eager to convince his jarl that the risk to their men would be minimized. All this damned waiting was giving the Imperial Legion more time to strengthen their army. His own philosophy was unsuited for the diplomatic relations of politicians- there is absolutely no question that Nords should rule Nords, and any man or woman that fights for other than this basic truth should fall. Call it a simple belief, but Galmar held it fast to his heart and would battle until his dying breath for it.

Ulfric Stormcloak stood stoically by, nodding occasionally as he listened closely to his battle plans. Galmar knew that Ulfric was weighing much more in his mind that the outcome of a simple battle; the years of warring for Skyrim's people tempered the man into a great leader. As such, Galmar intrinsically trusted his judgment and would do everything he could to help place him in the seat of the High King. Jorlief, the jarl's steward, leaned over the map as well, studying the invasion plans with great interest. "Your plan is sound, Galmar, but I wonder if it is not too soon. Our own forces are still gathering, and an overt attack on Whiterun will be seen as the signal to start active combat across the country. I don't doubt the hearts of the Stormcloak soldiers, but perhaps for now discretion is the better course. Whiterun may still choose to side with us." Galmar glared at Jorlief, his need for action wearing his patience thin, "You and I were able to make the right decision without a second's thought. Even the other jarls were able to judge their hearts within days. Balgruuf is showing his weakness in not deciding one way or the other. He is likely waiting to see which way the winds blow so he can side with whoever is left standing. A leader that will not rally his people to fight for their freedom is a leader that has failed them. The people of Skyrim have already lived too long under those who have failed as leaders, and it is up to us to set things right again."

Galmar finished his speech and looked to his friend Ulfric for agreement on the sentiment. He then noticed that his jarl was no longer looking at him. Instead, Ulfric was peering intently over his broad shoulder with one eyebrow raised. Jorlief cleared his throat suddenly, addressing an unknown figure behind Galmar, "Can I help you?" Galmar whirled around, hand instinctively reaching for his axe, but stopped short when he saw the Argonian silhouette in the doorway. Small framed and lithe, she (He? Galmar was never too sure and didn't care to look close enough to differentiate) hadn't made a sound as she entered the doorway. Galmar flushed. _How much did it hear? _He resumed his reach for his axe, but then looked to Ulfric who sent him a discreet message to stand down. The lizard approached, dim candlelight reflecting off her blood-red scales. "I'm here to collect the bounty for slaying the giant of Tumble Arch Pass," she said in the throaty coarse timbre reserved for their species. She extended her clawed hand, revealing a pale blue ear that encompassed the entire palm.

Jorlief looked relieved and ushered the Argonian from the room, commenting on her bravery for such a deed. Empty flattery, but at least Jorlief was getting the lizard away from the war room. Galmar watched them leave, and then in low tones addressed Ulfric, "Want me to send someone to dispatch it? Who knows if it is an Imperial spy and how much it heard." His jarl contemplated for a moment, hand idly stroking his beard, then gave a dismissive shake of his head, "No, we have more important things to focus on at the moment." He clapped Galmar on the shoulder heartily, earning a rare smile from the battle hardened veteran. "Besides," Ulfric continued as they resumed studying the map, "It's not as if one Argonian can change the tides of war."

* * *

Schyre made sure to keep her face as neutral as possible while the steward dolled out her hundred gold. Inside however, her emotions raged: a squall of fury and outrage. If her loyalties to the Empire wavered in anyway, overhearing that conversation cemented them firmly against the Stormcloaks. It was bad enough seeing the Dunmer segregated in this town, ostracized and persecuted to no end. All this "Skyrim is for the Nords" propaganda was making her ill, yet hearing them make plans to take over Whiterun was the final straw. Images flashed behind her eyes as the gold coins were placed into her hands. The children that had played tag in the streets of Whiterun were running in terror as Stormcloak troops cut down their fathers and brothers. The market, ripe with fresh produce and game, now splattered with blood as the troops overtook the Wind District. These arrogant men would destroy it all for power. Her hands shook in rage as Ulfric's steward placed the last gold piece in her palm. She smiled apologetically and said "Cold" as he looked at her curiously. The steward nodded sympathetically, and with a broad sweep of his hand directed her out of the Palace of the Kings as he excused himself to tend to other matters now.

Once outside, Schyre found that the frigid cold outside did little to cool her temper. She absent-mindedly paced the cobbled streets of Windhelm, trying to get ahold of her temper. Without paying much attention, she wandered near a crumbling stone wall lined with a few decrepit homes. Nearby, a city guard pounded on a locked door shouting, "Aventus Aretino! Open up kid, I know you're in there! You've got to go back to the orphanage! Grelod the Kind is worried sick about you!" Schyre stopped for a moment to watch the guard; the name he had called was familiar somehow, but she couldn't quite place it. Aventus… Aventus. _Where have I heard that before?_ The guard tried to pick the lock, and after breaking several lock picks cursed and gave up. "I'm coming back, Aventus- with someone who can pick that lock. And when I do, you're going back to Riften!"

_Riften? _Suddenly the memory snapped into place. Aventus was the child who was supposedly trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood. Curiosity peaked, Schyre watched the guard depart, and then decided to try the lock. With deft hands, she easily picked the lock and slid into the house, silently closing the door behind her. The house was tinged red from the setting sun's light hitting the flimsy white curtains covering the windows; eerie shadows surrounded all the abandoned furniture and obscured the cobwebbed corners. Schyre stealthily made her way around the house, pausing to listen as she prepared to climb the stairs to the second floor. A rhythmic thumping noise could be heard from one of the rooms upstairs, coupled with a low chanting murmur.

Silently drawing her dagger, Schyre inched forward to the noise. When she came around the doorjamb though, she froze in mute horror at the grisly display before her. A dark-haired boy was kneeling next to a human skeleton surrounded by a circle of candles. There was a fleshy heart next to the shoulder of the skeleton and what looked like internal organs between its legs. A black leather-bound book sat near the edge of the circle with a crushed purple flower- _was that a poisonous nightshade?_- laid in between the pages. The thumping noise she heard was created by the boy repeatedly driving a dagger into the middle of the effigy, striking the floor next to the spinal column. His dark hair hung over his eyes, dripping with preparation, as he thrust the dagger over and over. The ring of scarlet candles surrounding the grisly sacrifice cast wavering shadows that made his hollow cheeks and eyes even more prominent. His voice, hoarse and weak with exhaustion, chanted in an endless loop with the dagger strikes providing a somber cadence: "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

_Is that the black sacrament? This kid is kind of demented_… Schyre thought. She considered putting her dagger away and creeping back to the exit, but suddenly the child gripped the dagger with both hands and stabbed viciously while snarling, "Die Grelod, you old hag! Die!" After a few strikes though, his energy waned and his shoulders sagged. Dully, he started the chant again, "Sweet mother, sweet mother…" but finally collapsed on top of the skeleton, sobbing, "Why won't you come? You have to! I called! You have… to… stop… her." The desperate plea from his weary throat caused Schyre to feel a deep pang of sympathy for the child. She stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if she should try and comfort him or not, when he suddenly turned around and spotted her.

"You… You're here!" he sniffed, wiping his reddened eyes with the back of his arm as he stood upright. He smiled excitedly and threw his arms around Schyre in a relieved hug. "I knew you'd come! I just knew it!" Schyre stood with her arms spread uncertainly as she looked down at the wisp of a boy clutching her so desperately. The odd mesh of childish innocence and undeniable bloodlust in this little boy left her confused as to how she should react to him. Obviously, something had deeply affected this child's psyche. Part of her wanted to pry the boy's arms off her waist and push him away, while the other part wanted to provide him some small comfort. She had just decided to offer the boy a friendly pat on the head when he suddenly pulled back, leaving her hand suspended in the air.

"Oh… I'm sorry." He stated, trying to sound like an adult. "That wasn't very prof… professional of me." He looked her up and down, examining her. "Wow! The Dark Brotherhood sure sent me a cool assassin! Is that your bow? How many people have you killed with it? Are you going to kill Grelod with it? Can you make it hurt really REALLY bad?" Schyre looked at him, dumbfounded. _Huh? Dark Brotherhood?.. Does he think…? Oh boy… _"Oh sorry, I shouldn't have asked!" he amended quickly, "Trade secrets and all! Gotcha! Still… I'm glad you came. I need you to kill Grelod the Kind. She's the headmistress of the Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, except she isn't very kind. Actually, she's really mean, to all of us! She hits us and calls us names and tells us no one will ever adopt us! That's why I ran away! I don't want to go back there…ever!" He shuffled his feet, looking at the filthy floor as if ashamed. "When mother died, they sent me there to live. Now the guards want to send me back. Please kill her. I'll… I can pay you. I'll give you my family treasure! I just… I just don't want to go back there with her. Please."

Schyre looked at the boy as he begged earnestly. His clothes were threadbare, covered in dirt and dark colored stains. It seemed like he hadn't eaten in days: his limbs and face were all quite skinny and frail-looking. His fingernails were worn to mere nubs, caked with dried mud and what looked like old blood. _It's almost like he was digging…_ Schyre looked at the corpse's remains in the room with dawning horror. _His mother! Dear Sithis! Did he dig up his mother's body to perform the Sacrament?_ _Poor boy... _She met his eyes and saw the madness hidden beneath the anxiety. _He's obviously gone mad from desperation. Surely the officials in Riften would not allow a woman that wretched to be in charge of children. He must be overreacting to the loss of his mother and taking it out on his new caregiver. It's best he just accepts his fate and return to the orphanage. After all, it can't be THAT bad… Can it? _Hesitantly, she reached out and ruffled his hair. He beamed at her, innocently happy that his wish would surely come true. It was hard to believe that he was only moments ago praying for someone to be murdered. She left the house without a word, locking the door behind her.

As she left the doorstep, it occurred to her that Aventus Aretino wasn't the only one refusing to simply lie down and accept what fate had doled out to him. After all, wasn't there somebody walking around this very city that had a rather lofty and ancient title of Dragonborn thrust upon her? A certain somebody that was refusing to accept particular events as undeniable proof of that heritage and the power she could now wield? _And here I thought HE was simply being childish for not submitting to his fate._ The hypocrisy of her thoughts was not lost on her as she disappeared into the night.


	7. Murder, Maudlin, and Mayhem

**Hello all. Just to give you a heads up things may start to really go AU in these next few chapters in order to make sense. I'm still going to stick to the quests as much as possible, but look forward to some loose interpretations or "embellishing" to tie lose ends together. Thanks for all your support!**

****Spoiler warning** Rest of "Innocence Lost", Start of "A Chance Arrangement" **

Chapter 7

Murder, Maudlin, and Mayhem

Schyre drummed her fingers lightly on the table in time with Luaffyn's jaunty rendition of "Ragnar the Red" while basking in the heat of the central fire pit of Candlehearth Hall. The tune was just loud enough to cover the hushed tones of Schyre and the courier Geir as they discussed business. Schyre knew it was risky sending a message to Whiterun, but she couldn't just sit back and do nothing. Perhaps if Jarl Balgruuf knew the Stormcloaks were preparing to move against him, he would be apt to side with the Empire instead of merely sitting on the sidelines.

She had devised the plan to send Whiterun a message on a whim. After purchasing a room for the night at the Winhelm inn, Schyre had been led to a table and served a humble meal. She had positioned herself with her back to the wall, facing the entrance to survey for trouble. Sure enough, trouble had come, though surprisingly not for her. From out of the blistering cold came a gnarled Imperial man in his late forties. His graying hair and beard seemed to run together into one huge wind-swept tangle, frosted with flakes of snow. As he approached the bar, he clutched his trademark courier's cap in his bony hands at heart-level like a makeshift shield, his eyes darting around the room nervously. Schyre watched as he respectfully asked for a meal, carefully placing his gold on the counter, never taking his eyes off the tavern patrons. Schyre noted hers were not the only eyes that followed the man as the barmaid led him to a table. As the courier sat down to a plate of roast pheasant, one man stood up from his table and stumbled towards him in a way that screamed of drunken aggression.

"I don't want any trouble," the courier said, immediately cowering. "Just want a hot meal and warm bed, then I'll be on my way in the morn." The drunk sneered at him and knocked his plate of pheasant on the dirty floor. "Too bad- trouble found ya. Now, be a good Imperial dog an' eat on the floor like yer shupposed to." The drunk laughed as the older man stooped slowly to pick up the remains of his meal off the floor. As the courier picked up his plate, the drunk knocked it out of his hands again, braying like an intoxicated mule. "Take yer meals in th' Gray Quarters with those Dark Elf spies of yers. You'll find no welcome here." The mucus-filled spit wad the drunk was working on never had a chance to meet its intended target. Just as the nord arched his head back to launch it, the old courier arose from the floor with fire in his eyes and landed an uppercut squarely on his jaw. Schyre unsuccessfully suppressed a laugh which came out as more of a snort when the drunk looked at the courier in disbelief, thoroughly stupefied.

"Y-You Imperial shwine!" The drunk lurched at the older man, trying to throw him to the ground, but he was too inebriated to catch him as he sidestepped away. "I'll kill you!" he shrieked. Schyre smiled as the old courier dodged the drunk's clumsy attempt at a punch. Tough and spry Schyre thought, impressed. Several men got up from the table that the drunk had been sitting at, ominously approaching the altercation. Schyre jumped up from her seat when it became apparent that no one else would intervene; the courier would soon be outnumbered and probably severely hurt. Hand on her dagger, she stepped between lone man and the advancing posse. "Out of the way, lizard!" slurred the original drunken man, "This isn't your fight!" "Four men against one? I think it is," she replied coolly. From behind the bar, the proprietor Elda Early-Dawn yelled at the drunk in her thick, accented voice, "S'bout to be another comin' soon, Rolff Stone-Fist! You cause any more trouble and I'll go get your brother!"

The drunk visibly paled at the mention of his kin's name and Schyre took the opportunity to jump in. "Stone-Fist?" she practically purred, "Ulfric's second-in-command? I just came from the Palace of Kings, and he was in an important meeting with Ulfric. No doubt he'll be ecstatic for the interruption AND to have to come here to straighten out his brother's mess!" It was a gamble, but from Rolff's reaction she was willing to bet he was afraid of his sibling. Rolff thought for a moment then shook his head. "You ain't worth it, cur!" he said, gathering his men and disappearing through the door.

"Thanks, friend," the courier said, once again picking the remains of his dinner off the floor. Schyre motioned to the barkeep for another meal and knelt to help him clean up the mess. Once settled, the courier introduced himself as Geir and offered to buy her some mead. "What's an Imperial doing in this town? Seems like a death wish," she inquired as she sat at his table. Geir explained while digging into his fresh plate of food that normally any sane Imperial would give Windhelm wide berth considering the current political situation, but it was the closest major city to Winterhold. This meant it was the only stop for supplies before heading to Riften or Whiterun. "Courier's life ain't easy. Gotta be strong. Ride fast and hard through blizzards and blinding snow. Good pay for it though. Especially with that college in Winterhold. Those mages," Geir said around a mouthful of pheasant, "Always wanting something. Deliver all kinds of odd things there. Powdered bones, Dwemer artifacts, even parts of something Daedric one time. Going to Whiterun this time to pick up some kind of reagent."

Thus, the idea had formed in Schyre's mind to send Whiterun a warning. Still, she had not survived all these years without being cautious- sometimes overly so. She wasn't about to blatantly write to Balgruuf, especially not while still in the Stormcloak controlled territory. She retreated to her room for a brief moment to write in privacy. She thought carefully about how to frame her message- it needed to be subtle enough to not be confiscated by nosy Stormcloak soldiers, but plain enough that the people of Whiterun would understand its real warning. After a flash of inspiration, she dipped her quill into the inn's generously supplied inkwell and began to write. She ended up with a pretty official-looking flyer warning the citizens of Whiterun to protect their horses from a bloodthirsty bear approaching from the east. Since the crest of Windhelm was adorned by a bear, just as Whiterun's flag boasted a mustang, she hoped that it would be enough to get her point across without raising suspicions.

She hesitated, staring at the parchment, unsure of how to sign it_. Maybe I should sign it "Argonian" since that's how most of these warm-bloods address me _she mused sarcastically_._ After an internal struggle, she signed it "DB"- Dragonborn. She hoped the weight of the word would be enough to convey the importance of the message. When the letter was sealed with wax from a nearby candle, she passed the notice, along with a sum of gold to Geir with strict instructions to deliver it only into the hands of Irileth. Geir agreed to meet her back in Windhelm in a fortnight with any return message. Weight semi-lifted from her shoulders, Schyre bade him good night. She had a long journey to Riften ahead of her and no doubt that more dragons would follow.

* * *

_Great Divines this is boring,_ guardsman Dannick thought as he flipped his knife in the air, skillfully catching it in his hand every time. Guarding Riften's north gate was a tedious job: checking merchant papers, rifling through crates and wares as the stench from the nearby stables permeated the air. Dannick glanced at his companions: the two other guards were leaning against the wall, discreetly playing cards while trying to avoid the sun's glare off the freshly fallen snow. Dannick sighed in frustration. Ever since they had caught him cheating they refused to let him play. Now, he had to sit here and be bored. Or not. Working the north gate did have one perk- shakedowns. Beneath his helmet Dannick smirked as the female Argonian approached. She was well-armed and wearing a rather nice suit of armor. To Dannick that meant one thing: gold. Dannick chuckled to himself_. Sucker born every minute_ he thought, positioning himself in the Argonian's path.

"Halt!" He said with bravado, thoroughly excited about the prospect of gold to gamble with tonight. "In order to enter the city of Riften, you have to pay the visitor tax." The Argonian stopped for a second and gave him a deadpan look. "Visitor tax? Really? What's that?" she asked in a dry tone. Dannick faltered for a moment. _She's questioning it. No one's ever questioned it before._ Underneath his helmet, he licked his lips in uncertainty, "Why, it's the tax all visitors must pay to enter Riften, of course." The Argonian fixed him with a solid stare, crossing her arms in front of her. "Uh, huh," she drawled, "Seems more like a shakedown to me." _Shakedown! Damn!_ Dannick was beginning to panic, "All right! Keep your voice down…" He glanced nervously over at the other guards, "You want everyone to hear you? I'll let you in… just let me unlock the gate." The Argonian gave him a smug look and strolled into town. Dannick cursed and punched the wall, earning him a mild glance from the other guards, plus a now-throbbing hand. _Brynjolf is gonna kill me_, he thought as he closed the gate behind her.

* * *

_Ok… NOT what I expected_. Schyre wasn't sure what she expected of Riften, but this certainly wasn't it. She felt dirty just walking down the streets of the town. Everything was grimy: every window was heavily curtained with dusky colors on the inside and covered with greasy looking dust on the outside; the cobblestones of the street had deep grooves of dirt scoured into them from countless boots grinding in dirty slush and no one to care enough to wash them down occasionally; even the wooden siding of the houses seemed like they'd been aged in tea and rolled in dirt for that perfect patina of absolute filth that the whole place displayed. Cramping the streets, the oppressively dark and dingy buildings loomed over the walkways, creating many shadowy corners for danger to lurk. The structures seemed almost haphazardly stacked on top of one another, roofs touching and windows within easy reach. As she walked around, she noticed the winding waterway that divided the city in two, creating easy escapes routes that led to the sewers: a thief's paradise, indeed.

On her way into the city, a passing guard warned her about the Rat Way- sewers that coursed throughout the town. He called the Thieves' Guild a myth however, utterly dismissing its existence. Schyre wasn't so sure now that she was in the city. Dark and seedy, it seemed the perfect place to hide in plain sight. She stopped for a moment and looked around. _Ok, now what? I can't very well stop and ask someone to direct me to the Thieves' Guild._ Schyre stood quietly, idly scratching the base of the horns rimming her head. In the entire time she had focused on getting to Riften, she never really thought about what to do once she got here. _It's not like a member of the Guild is going to randomly approach me and ask me to join._ She sighed, rubbing her scar. _Well…. This was stupid of me._

She looked around town for a while before coming up with a plan. She thought about entering the Rat Way, but she wasn't too keen on the idea of bumbling around the sewers in the dark. Instead, she figured she would watch the marketplace. In a town of thieves, it was logical that someone would be looking for a mark, and the marketplace seemed the best area to find a target. All she had to do was follow the thief… and not get stabbed in the process. She entered the main square and examined the peddlers and their wares- just another potential customer to any onlookers. There was a red-headed Nord promoting a variety of odd looking potions, a Dunmer with a heap of general merchandise, a rather sour-looking Nord woman selling armor and… and a rather handsome Argonian man selling jewelry. Schyre put on her best smile as she sashayed towards the Argonian, appraising him more than his merchandise.

As she passed the red-headed potion peddler, she did a double-take as he thrust one skyward and claimed its properties could endow one to "perform like a saber cat." Schyre looked dubiously at the concoction he held aloft, doubting it would do much of anything except make someone sick. In all her alchemic experience, she had never seen such a creation. It looked like someone had bled into the glass vial and mixed it with swamp water from Black Marsh. Curling her lip in disgust, she passed the merchant before focusing her full attention on the Argonian. "Greetings, Marsh-Friend," he said genuinely. "So good to see a sister of the Marsh here. Welcome to my jewelry shop. How can I, Madesi, help adorn such a lovely lady? How about some beautiful rubies to compliment your scales? Hmm, no, I think that the rubies would be jealous of such radiance. Then, perhaps a necklace of citrine to bring out that mischievous sparkle in your eyes? All handmade with fine Argonian craftsmanship." _Oh, he's good_, she thought, grateful her red coloring wouldn't show her deep blush. _Maybe Riften does have a few good aspects. _She gave him a flattered smile, amused as the crest that topped his head flared in excitement. _So… not just sweet talk to sell his wares, but real interest. There must not be many Argonian females that come through here._ It wasn't what she was here for, but it was… tempting.

Schyre was just about to drop her best line when a solid hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around. She found herself staring at the barrel-sized chest of the red haired Nord, who swished a potion dramatically in her face. She recoiled slightly as its contents sloshed around in the vial and the man brought his face unsettlingly close to hers, "You don't want his products, lass. No practical application for a warrior such as yourself." He began guiding her back towards his stall, grinning broadly all the way, "Instead, direct your attention to my fine products. Now this will give you the strength of a mammoth and the swiftness of the artic fox." The Nord shoved a few glass containers in her hands. Startled, Schyre struggled not to drop them as he piled more into her arms. The Dunmer merchant, obviously irate, left his stall and began ranting at the Nord. "Brynjolf! Stop pestering our customers, you fraud!" the dark elf spat, "She doesn't want your business. Go peddle your fake miracle potions elsewhere."

The potion peddler Brynjolf smiled easily at the Dunmer and replied jovially, "Let the lass decide who she wishes to do business with, Brand-Shei." He then turned directly to Schyre and dropped his voice so only she could hear, "Besides, I think you'll find the nature of my business very… lucrative." He drew her eye to the pouch he now held in his hand, tossing it gently in the air enough that the clank of coins was easily discernable. Schyre's eyes widened at the site of HER coin purse resting in the Brynjolf's hand. _What the? How?_ She glanced at her side to check her purse, and lo and behold it was missing. _He must have grabbed it when he shoved all these potions in my arms. I didn't feel a thing! He __must be a member of the Thieves' Guild._

Schyre placed the potions back on the stall shelf and eyed Brynjolf for a moment. "All right, I'm listening," she replied, gesturing for her coin purse. _I'll need to count that later_, she thought as he delicately placed the pouch in her waiting hand before she re-secured it to her belt. The Dunmer threw his hands up in disgust and returned to his stall as Brynjolf led her to the other side of his own stall on the edge of the bazaar, away from prying eyes. Though his voice was pitched to a low and silky murmur, he addressed her formally, "I am Brynjolf. No doubt you have already guessed my profession." He flashed a knowing smirk as he regarded her appearance, "You have the look of someone who hasn't earned all of her money through back-breaking, honest work." _What is THAT supposed to mean? Is it because I'm Argonian? _Before her temper could flare, Brynjolf continued, "You also handled the situation at the gate very well. No violence or unnecessary attention, just quick wits and a sharp tongue." _So… he was responsible for the shakedown._ Schyre tilted her head quizzically to the side, "And you are telling me this because?" She looked at him expectantly. Brynjolf leaned in closer, the whiskers of his trimmed beard practically brushing her cheek scales, "I'm telling you this because I believe you have potential. I believe you possess skills that a certain Guild is looking for. Do you want a chance or not?"

Schyre stepped back to escape the intimate closeness, and to be at a safe distance where she could watch his hands. "What's the job?" she inquired quietly. Brynjolf grinned, pleased, and tilted his head sideways towards the rest of the market. "That Dunmer, Brand-Shei," he stated, "needs to learn to mind his own business. He has interfered with my affairs one too many times." He turned his face to Madesi's stall, "I will create a distraction in the bazaar while you pick the lock on the Argonian's jewelry case. There's a rather valuable ring inside- I want you to plant that ring on Brand-Shei. A 'concerned citizen' will then summon the guard to investigate a suspected theft, and that will be the end of that." Brynjolf's grin went from sly to predatory as he winked at Schyre. "Let me know when you are ready, lass."

* * *

Schyre leaned over the rail, watching the sunlight flicker on the waters below. She had told Brynjolf she would need time to prepare and excused herself, retreating past the temple of Mara to seek shelter under the eves of a nearby building overlooking the lake. She wasn't sure why, but his request bothered her. She knew that there was no honor among thieves and hadn't expected much of a moral ground when it came to a guild full of them, but she still couldn't ignore how WRONG it was to send an innocent man to jail. No doubt there were people in this world that deserved such a fate, just as some people deserved to die. Schyre herself had no qualms about dispensing justice or even death if the offense warranted it. But this… condemning a guiltless person for her own gain? The prospect made her feel unclean. She thought back to the event that first made her head down this path to try to join the Thieves' Guild- being mistaken for a thief when she tried to shop in Bruma all those weeks ago. _Maybe they weren't the only ones mistaken about me being a thief…_

Schyre picked up a pebble from the boardwalk and skipped it along the surface of the water, watching as it bounced a few times before sinking. "Wow!" a high pitched voice exclaimed to her right, "Can you teach me to do that?" Schyre half-turned and saw a blonde child had taken up position next to her, dangling her feet off the edge of the walkway. She waggled her dirty bare toes in the breeze, seemingly unaffected by the cold. Schyre smiled at her warmly and earned a shy smile in return before the girl bashfully averted her eyes. Schyre picked up another pebble and cast it beyond the rail into the softly undulating waves, earning her a delighted giggle as it skipped fours times before succumbing to gravity. "I sure can," Schyre said, "if you tell me your name." The girl stood, brushing off her dress with both hands and chin set proudly as she replied, "My name is Runa Fair-Shield. I am ten years old and strong and would work real hard for a mommy or daddy who wanted me." She plucked the rock from Schyre's hand and threw it into the river. It sank, well, like a rock and Runa puffed out her cheeks in frustration.

Schyre was amused at her energy, but immediately noticed when the little girl's enthusiasm faded. Runa looked wistfully out over the water with a sad grimace. "I wish someone wanted me." It was barely a whisper, nearly lost on the breeze. Schyre knelt down eye level to the girl and tucked a stray piece of hair behind Runa's ear. "Hush little egg," Schyre cooed, using a term of endearment from her people. "Who wouldn't want a daughter as strong and pretty as you?" She turned to Schyre, her innocent eyes wide and filled with cautious hope, "You really think someone will take me?" Schyre nodded, "Of course child. Why would you think otherwise?" Runa bowed her head and fidgeted with the lace on her dress, worrying it into a tangled knot. She shied away from meeting Schyre's eyes, slowly backing away from her and finally said, "Well… Grelod said-" A withered hand snaked out from the shadows at that moment and grabbed the girl roughly by the arm. From the doorway of the Honorhall Orphanage emerged an old crone, face twisted in anger. "What Runa meant to say," she interjected in a voice like dry leaves, "is that Grelod said only good little girls get adopted. Not guttersnipes who disobey their elders and go outside when they have been instructed to scrub the floors." The edge of her lip curled in disgust as she regarded the kneeling Argonian, "Or mingle with riffraff." With a vicious shake, she dragged the girl to the doorway. Runa was helplessly yanked along, but her fearful, pleading gaze never left Schyre.

Schyre stood and followed the old woman, hands folded in supplication as she began, "There's no need for that, ma'am. The child wasn't bothering me. I-" The crone turned and glared hotly at Schyre. "What do you want? You have no business here! Riffraff! That's all you Riften people are. This is an orphanage, not an inn. Be gone from here!" With that she slammed the door in her face, followed by the sound of a lock being secured. Schyre stood dumbly for a moment, staring at the door. _THAT was Grelod the Kind? No, it can't be. That means… that means everything the boy said was true._ Schyre pounded on the door for a few moments, but after no response she quickly scanned the area before kneeling to pick the lock. It took several tense seconds, but she finally heard the satisfying click of the tumblers aligning and pushed the door ajar. Immediately she was bombarded with the harsh sound of Grelod's voice screaming furiously at the children. Stealthily she slipped into the hall, silently closing the door behind her, and rolled to the other side of the room past a dining table. She pressed her back against the wooden wall next to the pantry door and peered around the corner.

Grelod the Kind had positioned herself in the center of the room like an unholy queen staring down at her subjects. A meek, mousy-looking woman stood behind her, head bowed in submission, as Grelod addressed the children. Each child was lined up before the row of beds; tiny soldiers at attention while Grelod went down the aisle and inspected them. Runa stood nearest to the entrance, silent tears rolling down the vicious welt that was forming on the side of her face- she seemed to know better than to cry out loud. Schyre caught her eye for a moment and brought her fingers to her lips in a "hush" gesture. Runa gave her a slight nod and returned her attention to Grelod. "Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" Grelod yelled loudly, pacing the aisle. "Yes, Grelod!" the orphans answered in unison. "And one more thing!" Grelod said, grabbing Runa by the ear and dragging her towards the center of the room. She threw the girl to the dingy floor, an example for the rest of the assembled children. "I will hear NO more talk of adoptions! None of you riffraff is getting adopted. Ever! Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world." Runa gasped sharply as Grelod yanked her to her feet by her golden hair. "Now, what do you all say?" Grelod asked, grinning sadistically. "We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness." Runa and the others supplied automatically. The sound was monotone and well rehearsed- completely devoid of sincerity or life. "That's better," Grelod replied haughtily. She released Runa, who scampered back to her place before her bed. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes. And don't forget- those who don't finish their chores don't get to eat. Constance!" The meek woman visibly flinched and followed Grelod towards the dinning area.

Schyre cursed silently when she saw them heading her way and carefully tried the panty door. It gave without much protest and she slid into the dark, musty room. She left the door open a crack; the thin stream of light that filtered in was barely enough to see the outline of the shelves. She watched as Grelod and Constance sat down at the table. "This place is filthy," Grelod said to Constance as she tore into a piece of bread. "I've a mind to cancel all town privileges unless those brats start pulling their weight." Constance met Grelod's eyes for the first time. "There's no need for that, Grelod. I'll take care of it." Grelod harrumphed, downing the last of her bread before brushing the crumbs onto the floor. Constance appeared aghast for a moment, but quickly schooled her expression by the time Grelod looked up again. "The stores are running low. We'll need to water down the milk again. Besides, we don't want the little darlings getting fat." Grelod's tone was so venomous Schyre wondered if she could bottle it and use it as a reagent in a poison- such a thing would kill instantly with just a knick. "Okay Grelod, I'll take care of it," Constance said, rising to her feet. "SIT DOWN!" Grelod yelled, "I'll do it! It needs to be done properly! And you were far too generous last time." Grelod rose, grumbling, and headed for the pantry door. _Shit! I need to hide_. Schyre thought. With seconds to spare, she crouched behind a dusty shelf as Grelod entered the pantry with naught but a candle to light her way.

The crone placed the candle on a shelf and reached for a large clay jug filled with fresh milk. She poured herself a full mug, sighing with satisfaction as she gulped the beverage down greedily. She smacked her wrinkled lips and placed the milk jug on the floor, now three-fourths of the way empty. Her shriveled hands grabbed a water jug from the shelf and began pouring its contents into the milk jug. As the water mixed with the milk, the liquid went from a creamy white to a brackish pale fluid. _Hag!_ Schyre thought. _Not only does she beat them and belittle them, she steals from them too!_ Unfiltered rage filled Schyre. She had been selected to be a nursemaid to hatchlings once. She had seen firsthand how precious new life is: how delicate and dependant each tiny being was. Innocent, and trusting. She had held her clan's hatchlings in her arms and swore to protect them. Now this witch was stealing from these children, lessening their chances for survival in an already harsh world.

Before Schyre knew what she was doing, she crept forward with her dagger drawn and seized Grelod by the hair. _I may not be with the Dark Brotherhood,_ she thought as she dragged her blade across the woman's throat, _but Aventus will get his wish_. Grelod tried to scream as the blood flowed from her neck, but it just came out a strangled, gurgling cry. The old crone clawed feebly at her assailant's arm, but her strength was already leaving her. Schyre let Grelod slowly fall to the ground and watched with no remorse as the light left her eyes. _This isn't murder._ Schyre concluded. _This is justice!_ Without a sound, Schyre glided undetected past Constance out the door. She had just latched the door behind her when she heard Constance's scream of horror and the children's jubilant cheers.

* * *

Geir reined in his gelding on top of a gradually rising hill. The snow stung his eyes and he pulled his courier's cap lower to offer him some shelter against the flurries. He could just make out Dragonsreach in the distance, maybe a day's ride away. Geir grinned. He had made the journey in good time. He was worried that the sudden snowstorm would slow him down and his rendezvous with the Argonian would be delayed, but luckily it seemed that would not be the case. He spurred his horse down the slope. They were halfway down when his horse suddenly shied. Geir clung to the gelding, only years of riding experience keeping him in the saddle. "Easy boy," he said, giving the horse a soothing pat on the neck. "What's wrong?" The horse balked again and Geir was forced to spin the gelding in a circle to keep it from bolting. Geir didn't notice the shadow descending upon them until it was too late. In the last excruciating moments of his life, he felt his flesh freeze: bones turned brittle and his lower half fused with that of his horse under the frost dragon's deadly blast. The horse gave an agonized scream as its fragile frozen legs shattered under the weight of torso and rider. As their bodies broke into pieces, the frost dragon landed for a leisurely meal.

* * *

Schyre knocked gently on Aventus' door. She had arrived back in Windhelm a few days early. With all of the excitement over Grelod's death, she thought it best to leave Riften and just wait for Geir to return. No doubt Brynjolf would be annoyed that she passed up her chance to join the Thieves' Guild, but somehow that didn't really matter anymore. Upon reaching Windhelm, she decided to check on Aventus Aretino and inform the boy of Grelod's fate. She knocked again, and after no answer picked the lock and slipped inside. Aventus was sitting in a wooden chair far too large for him, his feet dangling about a foot from the ground, and staring lifelessly at the wall. He appeared even skinnier than the last time she saw him- Schyre wondered if he had eaten at all since fleeing the orphanage. She shuffled her foot on the worn floor purposely to alert him to her presence. He ever so slightly turned his head and stared at her with sunken eyes. For all she could tell, he must have thought she was a hallucination- he certainly didn't seem to comprehend that she was really standing in the room with him. "It is done," Schyre said firmly, breaking the overwhelming silence. The change in Aventus was instantaneous: tears flooded his eyes as his whole face lit up, weary but alive again. He slid down from the chair, almost afraid to believe her words, "It's over?" Schyre gave a small nod, and Aventus ran over to Schyre, throwing his arms around her. Shaking uncontrollably, he buried his face into her armor and sobbed, "Is she really dead?" Schyre didn't hesitate this time- she wrapped her arms around him and tried her best to chase his demons away.

Eventually, his tormented sobs quieted down to sniffles and he disengaged himself from her waist. Aventus turned, wiping his snotty nose on the back of his hand, and began purposefully scavenging for something among the rubble in a chest against the wall. Schyre took the opportunity to put some food on the table for him: a cheese wedge, bread, cooked pheasant meat, and a few apples. "Here this is for you." Aventus held up a large dinner plate and gave it to Schyre. "My family treasure, just like I promised. Errr… I wish I had more to give you." Schyre held up the plate, admiring it in the dim light. It wasn't worth much, maybe a hundred gold at the most, but she hadn't done this for the gold in the first place. She gave him a gracious smile and helped him into the chair, motioning for him to eat. He ravenously dived into the food, barely coming up for air. "When I grow up, I'm going to be an assassin! That way I can help lots of children, just like you," he said happily, juices from an apple running down his chin. _Some role model you are, Schyre! _"Um… why not just focus on being a kid for a while. A HAPPY kid," Schyre emphasized, cutting the cheese for him with her dagger. "There's plenty of time to think about all that adult stuff later. Now, little egg, once you're done here you must go to the guards and have them take you back to Riften. It's safe there now and Constance will look after you. Also, you must never tell ANYONE about our arrangement. Okay?" Aventus looked crestfallen for a moment, but nodded in agreement, "I promise I won't tell anyone. I'll go back to the orphanage in a while. I'll give them time to, you know... clean up the mess. Will… will I ever see you again?"

"I don't know, little egg. Perhaps." Schyre was already walking down the stairs. She was almost out the door when she heard him call out softly, "Thank you."

* * *

The Argonian Scouts-Many-Marshes watched the new female help Shahvee on the tanning rack. The two women had developed a fast friendship and were now chatting like a pair of gossipy old hens. He chuckled lightly as she playfully bumped Shahvee with her hip, nearly causing the other Argonian woman to lose her balance. Her scales were unlike anything he had ever seen: red as dried blood and hued with flecks of gold, they glistened in the sun like a priceless treasure. Redclay. Schyre Redclay- that was how she had introduced herself. She told him the name originated from the terra cotta clay that lined her village's shores. Since he had been born in Skyrim, he rarely had the chance to meet a native of Black Marsh. He found her, and her stories, fascinating. The story about how she got her scar had been riveting, although he was sure she glazed over some of the details. This was the third day she had come down to the docks of Windhelm. _I guess the Nords haven't been particularly welcoming to her, either. _She had said she was waiting for someone. Scouts-Many-Marshes hoped whoever it was would be delayed. Other than Shahvee, there was a serious shortage of Argonian women in this area, and Shavee was already being courted by Neetrenza.

While on his break from the docks, he had caught several salmon that were now had slung over his shoulder. Feeling rather playful himself, he took one off the hook and tossed it at Schyre's turned back. With a wet splat, the fish landed squarely on her spine, sticking for a moment before dropping onto the dock. "Thank the Divines that wasn't a leviathan, Schyre, or you'd have another beauty mark to match the one above you eye." Schyre stopped her tanning and glared at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. _And I am dead, so very, very dead!_ Schyre sheathed her dagger and stood with the grace of a saber cat, salmon in hand. She brandished the fish like a weapon, waving its limp body in his direction with a sly smile on her face, "Is that a challenge, Scouts-Many-Marshes?"

He smiled in earnest, "Depends. What's the prize?" _Is it you? _His mind supplied scandalously. "Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You'd have to beat me first! Name your challenge!" Schyre grinned at him, tossing him the fish. He caught it in midair with what he hoped was impressive flourish. "Ah, but I am only a humble dock worker. I'm afraid my skill set is not the same as yours. You would no doubt beat me at archery, as I would defeat you at rope-making." When she laughed at his joke, he felt a surge of excitement. "Damn, and I was so looking forward to rope making," she teased. "Okay, name your stakes. If I win, I claim those fish you have for supper. What do you want if YOU win?" It was a loaded question. He thought for a brief moment before answering, "If I win, I still give you the fish… with the exception that I get to cook them and you join me for dinner." Schyre feigned indecision for a moment, then turned and conspired with Shahvee. After a few claw-biting moments, she turned back to him with a cool, straight face and replied, "Very well, Scouts-Many-Marshes. I challenge you to an underwater race from the end of the dock to the furthest bank. Do you accept? Or do you yield?"

She gestured to the snowy bank across White River, a good half-mile stretch. He balked slightly. The water was ice blue and freezing: mini glaciers drifted along downstream, following the current out to sea. "Do you yield?" she asked again, a challenging grin set on her face. _She's toying with me! I can't back out now; she'll think I'm a coward! _"Never!" he exclaimed, handing his fish over to Shahvee. _I'm going to freeze to death. Why did I agree to this? _He stripped off his vest and positioned himself to dive in the water. Shahvee rolled her eyes and muttered something about them being insane as she took Schyre's bow and quiver. Schyre stretched unhurriedly and walked to the edge of the pier, lining up with Scouts-Many-Marshes and assuming a diving position.

Shahvee stood behind them as they readied themselves. When both racers were braced to jump, Shahvee announced the start, "Ready… Go!" Scouts-Many-Marshes launched himself in to the frigid waters, gasping and inhaling a mouthful when the temperature hit him like a blunt weapon. _Go, you idiot! She probably got a huge lead on you already! _Forcing himself to ignore the cold, he commanded his limbs to propel himself forward, using his powerful tail to boost his speed. The coldness of the water stung his eyes, but he could see clearly ahead_. I'm winning!_ He thought in triumph, for Schyre was nowhere to be seen.

He made it about halfway to the bank when he risked a glance behind him and saw nothing but a few fish and water plants. _Where is she?_ He broke the surface of the water, only to see both Shahvee and Schyre doubled over with laughter. _She never jumped in!_ He realized with dawning embarrassment. He swam back to the pier feeling rather foolish and dodging the ice floes. Schyre offered him a hand up once he reached the dock. He stared at it, silently seething_. I guess now she'll tell me the wager was all just a joke, too._ "Guess this means you won," she said with a smile. Scouts-Many-Marshes perked up immediately. _Hey! She'll do it! That means…!_ Anger gone as quickly as it had come, he accepted her hand and hauled himself up.

Shahvee was still laughing. "I can't … believe… you …did that!" Shavhvee said gasping for air. "Ha ha ha!" he said mockingly, flicking cold water at her. She shrieked and hid behind Schyre. "So, about that dinner I owe you?" Schyre said. Scouts-Many-Marshes was about to answer when an earth-shattering roar shook the dock. Descending rapidly, a blood dragon's massive wings shredded the clouds as it approached the city. "RUN!" was all Schyre screamed. There was no need; he was already sprinting for the gate.

* * *

"Argonians aren't allowed in the city!" the guard announced shakily, blocking the gate with his pole arm. "There's a dragon attacking, in case you failed to notice. Let us in!" Schyre cried as the blood dragon made another pass at the city, spewing flames and blackening the walls. The three other Argonians she had become friendly with huddled as close to the gate as possible, trying to escape the dragon's wrath. Schyre grabbed the guard by his breastplate, bringing her face dangerously close to his. "Let us in now, or the four of us will throw you off the edge of the pier. In all that plate mail, how long do you think you'll be able to swim?" Schyre hissed menacingly and Neetrenza joined her. "Um... um… okay, okay. Look, just don't tell anyone I let you in," the guardsman said, opening the gate_. Somehow, I doubt they'll notice._ Schyre thought dryly as she ushered the others inside. _You know, with the giant fire-breathing dragon flying around. _

"Follow me!" She urged, leading them to the Candlehearth Hall. The citizens of the city were panicking, knocking each other over and trampling those too slow to get out of the way. The dragon caught an updraft and circled the skies, his powerful jet of flame setting the rooftops ablaze. The stone walls echoed with the cries of the wounded, the fearful, and shouts for water to put out the flames. Schyre saw a small group of archers line up along the battlements and unleash a torrent of arrows at the beast as she finally got the others to the inn. "Get inside!" she gestured, holding open the door as they filed into the building. Scouts-Many-Marshes had just passed the threshold when the dragon landed on the Palace of the Kings, trumpeting so loudly the buildings shook. "Maybe we should have stayed at the docks?" he asked uncertainly. Schyre shook her head, "Too late to go back now. Get inside and try to keep everyone calm. And stay on the ground floor." Schyre pushed the door closed and bound for the nearest stairwell to ascend the perimeter wall.

Ahead, the dragon released a great roiling fireball at a group of guards, sending them flying into the air. Schyre knelt and treated her arrow with a particularly virulent poison she had crafted before sprinting up the stairs. She snuck over as close as she could while the dragon was distracted and shot the arrow into its neck. The dragon roared and thrashed its wings and tail in pain before taking flight. As Schyre followed it along the wall, she had to yell at a pair of guards that were in her way, stricken. "Move!" She shoved past them and leapt onto the shingled roof of a nearby house, using all her skill to stay balanced. The poison was taking effect and the dragon's strength was failing as its flight patterns became more and more erratic. She got off several more shots before the creature turned around and pinpointed her as the target. Abandoning her pursuit, she turned and fled for the safety of the wall so the dragon would be forced to glide by overhead. Unexpectedly, the creature lost altitude and crashed directly into the wall, sending both her and it tumbling down to the hard stone below.

As she lay there stunned and winded, Schyre was vaguely aware that they had landed in the courtyard that led to the Palace of the Kings. She tried to focus on moving her unresponsive limbs; though painful, she was grateful that she could still feel them. Slowly, she stood and began limping away as the thick dust settled around her revealing the terrifying form of the dragon not far from her. Panting heavily and badly hurt from its many injuries, the blood dragon gradually picked itself off the courtyard floor, shaking debris from its wings. Schyre had made it to the stone archway to distance herself from the creature and heal herself. Her right shoulder was dislocated, and she was fairly certain she had cracked a rib or two. Wishing she had had more experience in the healing arts, she gritted her teeth against the pain as her ribs fused together and her shoulder snapped back into place. The intensity of the pain left her lightheaded, and she steadied herself against the archway wall.

_My bow!_ She realized too late that her bow was missing, probably still among the wreckage. The dragon hissed and snaked its head through the archway, boulder-sized eyes fixated on her. It was too large to fit through the arches though and growled in frustration as it tried to reach her. It would only be a matter of moments before its brute strength ripped the arch asunder, so Schyre dashed forward with the intent to end this quickly. Ignoring the protesting scream her shoulder gave her, she unsheathed her dagger and plunged it up to the hilt into its neck. The dragon roared, rearing its head into the arch above, shattering stones and raining down rubble as Schyre rolled out of the way. Then, like a cart of bricks, the dragon collapsed, its tongue lolling from its mouth, dripping blood and spittle. Dead.

Schyre coughed as she recovered from her tumble, the air once again permeated with dust from the crushed stones. _This CAN'T be good for my health_ she thought as she went to retrieve her dagger. With a solid pull, she freed it from the flesh of the dragon. She didn't even have the energy to try and resist the dragon's soul as it swelled over her in blinding golden light. She closed her eyes briefly against the brightness, feeling the familiar intrusion and the flash of warmth that went with the absorption. As it faded and left nothing but the skeletal remains of her fallen foe, she searched around for her bow, grimly noting the survivors emerging from the husks of buildings. They were gathering around the dragon's remains in awe, and she was more than certain they all witnessed that last spectacle of the soul absorption. She finally spotted her bow. Sadly, it did not survive the battle: it was sundered in two by a stone that had fallen during the fray. Damn. Seeing that it was a lost cause, she left it amidst the ruins and picked her way out of the debris.

She glanced at the faces of the people who had seen the final end of the dragon, and her heart dropped a little when she saw the same dumbstruck expression on her fellow Argonians. The paralysis of awe slowly faded as people's emotions changed to horror, disbelief, hope, and even some pity. The name Dragonborn was whispered over and over again in numerous conversations. "In all my years, I've never seen such a thing," one guard murmured. _Like I haven't heard THAT before_ she thought dryly. Schyre tried to ignore it, she really did, but the pressure, the very weight of the stares was overbearing. She tensely made her way to her Argonian friends that had vacated Candlehearth Hall and approached Scouts-Many-Marshes, only managing to grimace at him. "You're the Dragonborn?" he asked quietly. Schyre shrugged, "Yeah, I guess. Nevermind it though. It doesn't matter. I believe I owe you dinner?"

And that's when she saw his hesitation, his fear. Even among her people, she was no longer Schyre Redclay. Her clan name, rich in history, no longer held any meaning. She was stripped of it and stamped with Dragonborn instead. Everyone she met along way would only recall her as Dovahkiin. She was a myth, a legend, a demi-god. A tool to be wielded by the fates. Her wants and dreams no longer mattered: her Path was no longer her own. And she HATED it. "I… don't think… That is.. I.. well.. I mean…." Scouts-Many-Marshes stumbled over the words, trying to come up with an excuse to back out of their dinner arrangement. "It's ok. Don't worry about it." Schyre said sadly. He looked relieved for a second, but had the decency to mask it quickly. "We should get back to the docks," Neetrenza said, taking Shahvee by the arm and leading her away. "Thank you for saving us," Shahvee said earnestly as they turned to leave. She gave Schyre a sympathetic look before turning for the docks. Schyre watched them go as the rest of the crowd slowly dispersed. Shahvee appeared to be arguing with Scouts-Many-Marshes and punched his arm solidly in response to one of his meek replies as they left the confines of the city walls.

"Excuse me?" someone said meekly behind her. The emotions Schyre had held in check suddenly broke free. She whirled on the inquirer, snarling viciously, "What! What task do you have for the Dragonborn now? Whose skin do you want me to save? Or war I am to prevent? Perhaps I am to end world hunger? Cure all diseases? What is it you need of me now?" Schyre stopped short when she saw her own terrifying reflection in the courier's eyes, wide as shields. The trembling man held a rolled parchment out to her, yellowed with age, "M-m-message for you, ma'am." Schyre sighed, rubbing her scar, "I'm sorry, I just... It's been a long day." The courier nodded wordlessly, still quite shaken. "Is this from Geir?" she inquired, opening the letter. "I-I don't know. I couldn't tell you who he was. He had his hood down," the courier replied, wary of another outburst of anger.

Schyre stopped breathing for a long moment as she stared silently at the paper, oblivious of the courier. Finally remembering as an afterthought, she groped blindly in her coin purse, never taking her eyes from the paper. After grabbing a large handful of gold, she thrust the coins at the courier's chest, releasing them almost before he had a chance to catch them. "Go," she said in a dull voice. The man didn't even thank her- in his haste to get away from her, he even dropped a few coins. Schyre didn't notice. It did not matter. He didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Not even the fact that she was Dragonborn. She was dead, and in her hand she held her own death certificate. The yellowed paper held only two words: WE KNOW. Above those two simple words was the insignia of the Dark Brotherhood. The Black Hand.


	8. Into the Void

**Greetings and salutations all. Thank you for faithfully following this story and all the comments. We are getting to the good parts now and I promise some Farkas love will be coming soon in the next few chapters. Thanks for your patience! I want to build a good solid back ground story to create more drama later. I promise they will get together soon. Several spoilers for DB quests here, including radiant quests. I'm not going to list them any more to save time because if people haven't figured out there are spoilers yet and we are in chapter 8…. well then.. derp. That's all I have to say about that.**

Chapter 8

Into the Void

_My head… Ohh, my head! _That was the first coherent thought Schyre had. Her skull felt like there was a great booming drum pounding a hearty beat where her brain should be. She winced and slowly opened her eyes; the introduction of light to her already pained head made her vision swim. _I feel like I've been drugged _she thought as she quietly moaned and gently rolled to her side to sit up carefully. She sifted through her foggy memories to try recalling what reagents could cause such effects, but the symptoms were too common to pinpoint the culprit. Since her blurred vision only supplied her with shadows and strange blobby colors, she had to feel around to get her bearings. _What happened? Did I drink too much? _It felt like she was on a bare wooden floor. _Did I roll off of the bed in my sleep?_ She gingerly moved her arm about, trying to locate the bed that should surely be nearby.

The last thing she recalled was going to sleep in a rented room at Candlehearth Hall. After receiving the note from the Dark Brotherhood, she thought about running, fleeing into the wilds in hope that the Black Hand wouldn't find her. In the end, she decided against it; she knew doing that would only prolong the inevitable. Sithis would guide them to her, and there would be no place she _could_ hide. Since she was already fated to have an assassin hunt her down, she preferred the location of the encounter to be her own choice rather than being surprised while blindly running through the cold, uncomfortable wilderness. So, she decided to wait in the most obvious place. No, she wouldn't run, but she also wasn't going to merely lie down and die without a fight, either.

"Well, well, well. Looks like you're finally coming to," a voice like spun honey observed dryly. Schyre focused her attention in the direction of the voice and willed her eyes to focus. The hazy red and black blobs sudden snapped into shape, outlining the athletic figure of a human woman. Schyre reached for her dagger instinctively, immediately recognizing the color and pattern of her garments: a Dark Brotherhood assassin! Of course, her dagger was gone. Unarmed, Schyre gathered both feet under her, ready to spring from a sudden attack. Her headache started to recede shortly after her eyes focused on the assassin, whether from the drug's effect wearing off or mere adrenaline overriding the pain. With her thoughts sharpening again, Schyre darted furtive looks around to see if there was anything she could use to improvise a weapon.

It was then she realized that they were not alone in this dingy shack. Three others occupied the room, kneeling in a line on the cold floor, each bound and blindfolded. _What is going on? _she thought. A small flash of movement in the corner of her eye riveted her full attention back to the assassin who was now twirling a dagger deftly between her fingers. HER dagger. The woman chuckled darkly, her voice barely muffled by the mask she wore. "My compliments on the murder of Grelod. I heard it was a clean kill. More than she deserved probably." The woman stopped twirling the dagger and leaned forward. "That, however, presents a problem since it was OUR kill. You stole a contract meant for the Dark Brotherhood... But, I am generous. I will allow you to repay your debt to us. A life for a life." With a well-practiced snap of her wrist, she flung the dagger into the floor between Schyre's feet. The force of the strike buried the blade several inches into the wood. "Someone in this room has a contract on their head. It is your job now to decide who that person is. Take that life, and all will be forgiven."

Schyre glanced briefly down at the dagger. Cautiously, she reached down and yanked it from the floor boards, never taking her eyes off the assassin. With its familiar weight now comfortably resting in her palm, she instantly felt more secure. She eyed the woman, calculating her odds of survival if she attacked her now. Though the woman seemed to be in repose, Schyre could see her muscles were tense and ready; she would not be able to get the drop on this woman and would no doubt be in for the fight of her life if she tried. As if sensing her thoughts, the assassin gave her a subtle warning, "I do hope you don't disappoint me." The mask over her mouth seemed to stretch into an amused smile, "After all, you came so _highly_ recommended." Schyre stared at her for a moment. _Recommended? Who would…? Veezara! _Her heart jumped up into her throat in elation. Veezara was here! It was probably only because of his influence that she was still alive right now.

Clenching her jaw in determination, she forced away any thoughts of attacking the woman and approached the captives. She was unsure what to do at first. Killing someone in the heat of battle was one thing, however murdering someone who was helpless and bound seemed cold-blooded. She spoke with each of them in turn, listening to their tales and tried to discern which person had a contract for their death. The first captive was a Nord mercenary named Fultheim the Fearless, a title completely at odds with his true cowardly nature. Through tears and blubbering, he admitted there might be someone that wanted him dead, perhaps the family or accomplices of one of his victims. He didn't personally have any problem with anyone, but being a mercenary involves killing whoever had a bounty put on their head, and someone was bound to eventually hold a grudge for it. It made sense to Schyre that this could be the case- he certainly seemed to understand there were certain risks in being a freelance sell-sword. So she rationalized to herself, but his weak-willed behavior coupled with his current helpless predicament almost sickened her at the thought of executing him.

Schyre approached the second possibility, this time an Imperial goodwife named Alea Quintus. Unlike Fultheim the Fearless before her, Alea was all spit and fire, almost literally. When Schyre asked her if she could think of any reason someone would want her dead, the defiant woman acidly exclaimed, "It's none of your damned business what my affairs are! If you're going to kill me, just do it already! As Mara is my witness, if I didn't have this hood on right now I'd SPIT right in your face!" A small part of Schyre was pleased with the woman's pride in the face of death. Her caustic attitude _did_ remind her ever-so-slightly of the late Grelod, however, so there was a possibility that her actions at home were just as cruel as her words. If she was indeed a woman of some station, it probably meant that she had servants, and possibly children, to abuse. That thought sobered Schyre from ruling her out completely- she had seen firsthand what having a person like Alea in a position of authority could do to someone.

The last option was a finely-dressed male Khajiit. Despite his predicament, he seemed rather non-plussed to have been "bagged and dragged." When asked his name, he replied in a surprisingly smug tone, "Ahh… Vasha, at your service. Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, and defiler of daughters. Have you not heard of me?" Schyre was immediately set on edge by his tone and words. This man openly BRAGGED to her that he was a thief, murderer, and rapist. Her mind almost made up, but wanting to give him the same benefit she allowed the other two, she asked if someone would pay to kill him. Vasha chuckled at this and replied, "The real question is 'would someone pay to have me killed… again?' If none of my enemies paid to have me killed, I would be personally insulted. My day isn't complete if someone doesn't try to gut me in the street! But come now, we both know you will let me go. This is all just part of the game we play, yes? A life threatening situation to ensure mutual benefit. Let us be done with the silly theatrics and talk about your problem like civilized folk, hmm?"

His arrogance and almost comfortable familiarity with this dire situation left no doubt in Schyre's mind: this is the one they made the contract for. He thrives on the misery and pain of others. To let him live would doom countless people and their families in the future. _This is why the Brotherhood exists!_ Schyre realized with furious clarity. _To rid the world of monsters like him_. Schyre struck him mercilessly, driving her dagger deep into his chest, reveling at his dying shriek. There was no shadow of doubt in her that this was the right thing to do- and now the world had one less evil. She stood over his dead body, staring down at his still form with an aura of self-righteousness. Upon hearing his death, the other captives flinched away from her location and were now huddled together, Alea uncharacteristically quiet and Fultheim praying through his sobs of fear. She glanced at them, momentarily wondering what would become of them before returning to the assassin.

"Well done," the masked woman said, sliding off the top of the armoire. She landed gracefully next to Schyre, circling and assessing her like a prized farm animal. "So you chose the conniving Khajiit. With those kinds of boasts, he was sure to have enemies. It was only logical that you chose him." When she had completed a full circle, the assassin stopped in front of Schyre and handed her a key and a hand-drawn map. "My name is Astrid, mistress of the Dark Brotherhood here. Here is the key to the shack. You may leave anytime you wish. And here is the location of your new home. Approach the door and answer 'Silence, my brother' to gain admittance. I, and your new family, will await you there." Schyre glanced back at the two remaining captives cowering on the floor, feeling unease growing in her, "What about them?" Astrid had not lowered her voice when she introduced herself and openly admitted being part of the Dark Brotherhood. That did not bode well for the couple. Astrid's eye's smiled, "Do not worry about them, sister. Rest assured, all will be well. Now go, your family eagerly awaits you. You have much blood to spill."

Schyre slid the key into the lock and turned the tumblers. She pushed the door open and winced as the rays of the setting sun pierced the gloom and stung her eyes. As her eyes were adjusting to the natural light, the scent in the air brought an overpowering wave of nostalgia. The open door revealed an expansive marsh, and she was hit with a sudden pang of homesickness. Though nothing like Black Marsh, it had the familiar smell of wet soggy earth and lichen-covered rocks. She inhaled the well-known scents, longing to bask in them for a few peaceful moments. As the door latched behind her though, her serenity was cut short by the twin screams of the captives left in the shack. The shrieks of fear and agony were occasionally punctuated by cruel laughter. It soon dawned on Schyre that Astrid fully intended to have some fun with them before sending them to Sithis. She wasn't going to just kill them- they would be tortured first, and probably for a long time. Schyre clamped down on the unease of her conscience, determined that their fates had nothing to do with her now. That was Astrid's… no, that was the Dark Brotherhood's business. Grimly, Schyre wondered if she had done the Khajiit a favor by killing him swiftly. Shuddering and surprised at her own viciousness, she broke into a jog, trying to distance herself from the awful cries that echoed throughout the marsh.

* * *

The Black Door before her pulsated with a life of its own: thrumming in time like some morbid heartbeat. If Schyre had any hair, it would have been standing on end from the pure malice that radiated from the portal. It had taken her several hours to reach this place due to a damnable blood dragon that had sniffed her out in the swamp. By the time she had brought it crashing down with only her dagger, Schyre was also fighting off several mud crabs, frostbite spiders, and even a few chaurus that joined in the fray. It had seemed like the entire swamp had marshaled together in an attempt to end her. Now, here she stood, bruised and battered, before the ominous door… trying to summon the courage to enter. The irony was not lost on her. _I can rush headlong into battle with dragons, but am afraid of a DOOR_.

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Schyre approached the door and placed her palm against it. She felt the presence within acknowledge her, a sensation that crept into her veins from her fingertips and causing her blood to turn to ice. "What is the music of life?" a ghostly voice whispered from the door. The words permeated the air, waiting for her response. "Silence, my brother," she replied expelling the breath she didn't realize she was holding. After several tense seconds, the chill left her veins and the door swung open as the whispering voice murmured, "Welcome home." Steeling herself, Schyre descended into the darkness as the door slammed shut behind her, plunging her into darkness.

* * *

Astrid studied the map in front of her, planning her next move to strengthen the Brotherhood. She almost didn't hear Schyre as she rounded the corner... Almost. She smiled to herself. _Veezara was right. She will be an asset to my Family_. Feigning indifference, Astrid addressed her without turning around. "Welcome to the Family, Sister. I was beginning to think you had gotten lost… or had second thoughts." She turned slowly, pleased to find a surprised look on Schyre's face. The Argonian looked like hell though: she was covered in mud, blood, and insect slime; there were large rips in her armor; she also had several cuts and bruises marring her jeweled scales. Astrid raised an inquisitive, disapproving eyebrow. Schyre managed a shrug and simply offered one word as explanation- "Dragons." Astrid admonished gently, "This won't do. As a member of our Family, you must represent us better. You represent the Black Hand now. You represent me."

Astrid turned and retrieved the shrouded armor she had picked out for Schyre, grateful for her foresight. She presented Schyre with the dark supple leather, "Wear it with pride sister, for you are one of us now." Schyre took the armor with an almost holy reverence, causing Astrid to smirk a bit. "Now, go and meet your fellow family members," she said nodding towards the hallway, "one of whom you are already familiar with. Nazir will be giving you your assignments. The corpse of the Night Mother is en route, and I have an important task I am working on and may need your assistance with later." "The Night Mother is coming? ...Here?" Schyre asked, her voice full of mute awe.

Astrid sighed mentally. _Great, she venerates the Night Mother._ The last thing Astrid wanted was that dried-up mummy in the Sanctuary. It had been entirely HER efforts that kept the Brotherhood from falling apart, not some rotting corpse. It was SHE who had sacrificed, SHE who had pulled them from the ashes. If it wasn't for her there wouldn't BE a Brotherhood for the Night Mother to return to! "Yes, yes," she sighed, "She's coming sometime soon. Do not concern yourself with such things though. I am well prepared for her… return." Schyre gave her an odd look. Astrid couldn't read the Argonian's expression, but something about it irritated her to her very core. "Very well," Schyre replied finally, "Is there anything else I should know? What of the tenets? Are they-" Astrid scowled, gesturing dismissively, "There are no tenets!" She had replied more forcefully than she intended, so she softened her tone before continuing, "These are the rules of the Dark Brotherhood: Respect the Family. Do your job and act professionally. And remember… my word is law. Do these things and you will succeed here. Now, leave me. I am very busy." Astrid returned to her table, watching from the corner of her eye as Schyre retreated down the corridor. She sighed heavily sitting down in her chair, unable to shake the feeling that she had just welcomed trouble through the front door.

* * *

The corridor widened to a large cavern where hushed voices echoed softly among the stalactites. Several assassins gathered around a young girl as she described in a deceptively innocent voice her latest kill. Schyre had to look twice before she realized the child was a vampire. She stopped in her tracks and listened for a moment, scanning the crowd for her brother. With a flash of green hued scales, she spied Veezara in the back leaning against a large ornate wall. As the girl finished her grisly tale, earning merry laughter from the onlookers, the crowd dispersed and Schyre got a clearer view of her brother. The years seemed to have been kind to him, honing his lean muscle into a perfect predatory figure.

With an unrestrained grin, she practically ran to Veezara. It wasn't until she was only a few feet away that it registered WHAT he was leaning on. She had been so intent on seeing her brother that she was completely oblivious to the steadily increasing chanting until it was too late. One of the words carved in the stone wall hissed with the crackle of awakening life as its power swelled and burst forth towards Schyre. She gasped and curled down instinctively, covering her head in a useless attempt to shield herself from the invading power. The full force of the Thu'um assailed her body, burning into her very soul. The afterglow of the word shined in her sight with radiant white light as the ancient word's true power became hers to command: Krii, Kill. My voice heralds doom, calling the soul to the Void as body and life fade to nothing.

Catching sight of his figure in the corner of her eye, Schyre startled briefly and focused on Veezara again. Suddenly, she inexplicably felt ashamed and lowered her gaze as she slowly rose to her feet. Every other flagrant demonstration of the Dragonborn legacy had brought nothing but distance between her and those around her. She had intended to tell her brother everything that had happened to her regarding this Dragonborn nonsense, but she wanted to do it gently, or at the very least be able to TELL him without SHOWING him... _So much for THAT small favor_ she thought dejectedly. Fearful to see the all-too-common horror and awe she was cursed to inspire in others, she finally brought her gaze to her brother's face.

Schyre searched his features briefly, trying to interpret his reaction, before her fear faded to confusion: Veezara's face was surprisingly emotionless. He was looking at her with the same response he would have to looking at a stone on the road- indifference. From his unchanged, relaxed posture, she realized that through the entire event, he hadn't moved either towards or away from her. Even afterwards, when the swirling magic had faded and she was cowering on the floor, he didn't offer her a helping hand or even a single word. Not finding any reaction to what he just witnessed, she simply stared back at him. _What did they do to you? _she wondered as she looked at him with growing dismay. It wasn't just a physical change that now marked him different from the person that briefly visited her home back in Black Marsh. He was looking at her with a stranger's eyes: seeing her, but not connecting with her. There was no trace of the quiet companionship he offered her as he taught her the bow all those years ago, no trace of acknowledgement that it was his eggsister that stood before him…

A lump started to form in her throat as Schyre came to this uncomfortable realization. Desperate to be proven wrong, to be shown that she was jumping to conclusions and her fears were unfounded, she tried to say something, anything to him. _He is still my brother… isn't he?_ All words died in her throat though, and several moments of awkward silence stretched between them. Finally ready to force herself, she took a breath and was about to speak when Veezara broke the silence. In a voice as dispassionate as his eyes, he said, "If you want to talk to someone about it, you should go to Astrid." He easily leaned away from the stone wall and walked right past her, not taking another moment to look at her. Schyre turned to watch as the man that used to be her brother receded into the shadows.

* * *

Schyre stoked her small campfire and braced herself against the wind. In her lap rested the beautifully carved ebony bow she found in the small weapon room of the Sanctuary. She was currently on her way to Markarth to avenge some betrayed lover, the next task in her string of jobs to do as a Dark Brotherhood assassin. She had already completed the first three contracts with ease, though the deaths weighed heavily on her spirit. One of the marks had been a hapless simpleton named Narfi. Try as she might, Schyre couldn't figure out why someone wanted the poor man killed. The man was obviously mad from loneliness at the disappearance of his sister, but he was harmless. For a long time she just stood over him, watching him sleep and call out pitifully to the vision of his lost sister in his dream before Schyre finally drew the dagger across his throat. He went silently into Sithis' arms, and likely to where his sister was as well. Schyre tried in vain to convince herself that it had been a mercy killing; the pitiful fool would have paced around that riverbank forever waiting for someone that would never arrive. She knew deep in her heart however that she was lying to herself, and it just made her feel even more isolated.

Her integration into the Brotherhood hadn't gone as smoothly as she had hoped. She found most of the Sanctuary's residents either really creepy or just downright hostile, so discussing the battle with her conscience was a moot point. Nazir, the Redguard tasked with giving her petty missions until Astrid decided otherwise, was constantly making sarcastic jibes about her abilities. Gabriella delighted in disturbing her with disconcerting juxtapositions such as her enjoyment of knitting and unicorns, and then describing how on one occasion she used her knitting needle to stab a unicorn to death. She was also the owner of the Dark Brotherhood's unofficial pet- a frostbite spider named Lis that spent most of its time in a shallow recess of the floor. Arnbjorn, a tow-headed Nord that announced he was a werewolf and Astrid's husband, had taken to calling her "morsel," "tidbit," and other pet-names that involved bits of meat. At first he told her to not mind the names- it was just hard for him to not think of people as snacks. Things didn't work out too well though when Schyre decided to return the nicknames in kind, referring to him as "Spot," "Fido," and her personal favorite- "Here boy!" Now they just avoided each other as much as possible.

It wasn't all bad at the Sanctuary though. Schyre was surprised at how well she got along with the childlike Babette, never picturing herself becoming friendly with a 300 year old vampire. Granted, the context of their conversations tended to revolve around alchemy, but it was nice to have an intellectual discussion with someone well versed in the art. Babette had even given her a few lessons, teaching her some new potions. The last member, Festus Krex, was a cantankerous old mage, but his view of Astrid and the old ways caused Schyre to warm up to him quickly. With hushed tones they would discuss the tenets and how they both couldn't wait until the Night Mother arrived. He'd often made her laugh with his off-the-wall statements like telling her about his foolproof plan to getting a job done: "You walk up to them, introduce yourself, melt all their skin off and run like the wind. Works every time!"

The thing she longed for most, however, was to reach the brother that she hoped was still locked somewhere in that emotionless husk named Veezara. Even though her first encounter with him left her in despair, Schyre couldn't simply accept this is way it would always be- she wasn't the type to not fight back. Whatever had happened in his life that made him so disconnected didn't matter anymore; she was here now, and she would do everything she could to try to bring him out again. So she persevered in trying to remind him of who he was. Veezara did not make things easy for her though; he was always courteous to her when she spoke to him and would even exhibit some form of interest when she spoke to him about her missions, but beyond that he was blasé when she tried to connect with him emotionally.

Three weeks had passed and not once did he offer to chat about anything other than the missions she brought up. Schyre still desperately wanted to discuss with him what had been happening to her since she came to Skyrim. Any time she broached the subject however, Veezara would immediately tell her to seek counsel with Astrid- that Astrid will know what to do. Schyre swore that if she heard one more thing about ASTRID she would scream. On the evening of her first mission, she thought she saw just a glimmer -a tiny spark- of his old self when he requested her to follow him, saying there was something she should have before she goes. The cryptic request had the appearance of being a surprise, and she looked forward to the mystery he seemed to have hidden. He guided her to a small storage area next to the practice room. Inside were several fine weapons hanging on the racks, including an ebony bow.

_He remembered!_ Schyre's eyes lit up as she looked to Veezara happily. He was looking at the blades, however, and gestured to everything in the closet while commenting, "I've tested all of these weapons and any of them will serve you well. Pick whatever you are most comfortable with to take on your mission, and when you have time in between jobs you can practice with the others if you want." He left immediately after that, leaving her to make her pick in solitude. Nothing in his presentation indicated that he knew she would take the bow. It seemed that to him she was just as likely to pick any other weapon as that one. Of course Schyre reached for the bow, but somehow most of the luster of the "gift" was lost.

_Is this what being an assassin does to you? _Schyre wondered as she watched Veezara cruelly twist his blade as it struck the practice dummy. Such a wound on a live person would leave them bleeding to death for an agonizingly long time. Schyre took him at his word to visit the practice room in between jobs; this was the location that he was most likely to be at any time when not out on his own mission. She had thought it would be a different venue for the two of them to bond, but he was always single-mindedly focused on practicing his own skills. Ignored as she was, she had plenty of time to watch his techniques. After a while, what little wonder and awe she had felt from watching his perfect form slowly became unease as she realized that each blow was honed to deadly perfection- not just to kill, but to maim, bleed and cripple its victim.

Schyre sighed again, turning her pheasant on the spit to fully cook it. Markarth was maybe a day's travel away from her current location. She was appreciative not only for the assignment, but for the chance to get out of the Sanctuary before tensions exploded. Cicero, the odd jester that she helped on the road several weeks back, had shown up carting, of all things, the corpse of the Night Mother with him. Schyre was more than surprised that SHE was the mother he was referring to, not to mention that fate had brought them together. After all, it was her help that had expedited the Night Mother's return. As Cicero overzealously thanked her for her assistance, Schyre couldn't help but notice the peeved look Astrid shot her. Astrid had been on edge all day since the jester arrived and was apparently taking it out on Arnbjorn, putting the werewolf in a fouler mood than usual. He actually growled at Schyre when she offered to help Cicero set the Night Mother up in a private room. Astrid was curt while giving Schyre her mission, advising her to be professional and telling her to keep the reward. She couldn't be sure, but she thought Astrid may have given her the task specifically to keep her away from the Night Mother and deranged jester. It seemed pretty obvious that Astrid was not at all happy with the Night Mother's return.

Schyre was determined not to let them sour her mood. She was actually quite excited about this assignment. After reading the missive and hearing the details, the murder of this mark was well-deserved. Schyre had begun to lose faith in the purpose of the Brotherhood, but this mission restored her belief that they were doing this for the good of all. She rationalized that even though the first three contracts had seemed like cold-blooded murder, those individuals must have done _something_ to warrant their deaths. _Perhaps the clients didn't want to share to details, _she mused as she wrapped her bedroll tighter around her. This, however, was exactly what she had been hoping for-revenge, and with just cause. She would truly relish the death of Alain Dufont: womanizer, thief, and betrayer. With a smirk, she turned her spit again, daydreaming of how she would make him pay.

* * *

"No. I'm sorry, I'm not doing that. That wasn't part of the contract." Schyre crossed her arms and looked sternly at Muiri, trying to keep the annoyance out of her tone. Muiri glared back at her, venom in her eyes. Schyre couldn't believe the gall of this woman. She had just trekked all the way back to Markarth to inform her of Alain Dufont's demise only to have Muiri ask her to murder an innocent woman- all because she was angry at the family for kicking her out for her own stupidity that cost them handsomely. Schyre shook her head. Though the woman was offering more gold and two lotus extract potions, she wasn't about to kill someone out of jealousy. Astrid had told her to keep it professional, and she was fairly certain taking marks that were not part of the contract was the exact opposite of professional. She wouldn't have done it even if she wasn't concerned about how she represented the Brotherhood.

Schyre quietly seethed at the fact this woman, who at the start of this deal claimed to LOVE the victimized family as her own, was now willing to cause that very same family more pain and suffering in order to worm her way back into their lives. She snatched her payment of gold from the woman's hands, wanting nothing more than to leave her presence as quickly as possible. Suddenly inspired, she leaned in close and whispered in Muiri's ear in her coarse, throaty voice, "Best be careful about whose lives you meddle with, girl. Yours are not the only prayers the Night Mother heeds." As the color drained from the woman's face, Schyre turned and walked away, satisfied with another day's hard work.

* * *

Astrid watched Cicero with narrowed eyes. _He's up to something_ she thought as the jester paced back and forth in the hallway, chanting nonsense so loudly it echoed off the walls. His whiny sing-song voice grated on her nerves to no end. Astrid rubbed her forehead, trying to quell the headache that was blooming behind her eyes. She _had_ tried to be civil, welcoming him and his stupid corpse into her home, but she already felt the shift of power. Festus Krex had started pestering her about the tenets again and Schyre has insisted on setting the Night Mother up in the nicest room to "honor" her. She could feel the grip of her power slowly eroding, and it infuriated her to no end. To add insult to injury, she had walked by the Night Mother's chamber the other night and distinctly heard the lunatic Cicero talking to someone. She wasn't about to tolerate people conspiring against her. Not in HER Sanctuary. She was pulled from her dark thoughts as Cicero entered the training room. _NOW what is that buffoon doing? …Is he skipping?_ He was SKIPPING! Skipping in her Sanctuary! Astrid clenched her gloved fists into balls, the leather squeaking in protest under the pressure of her grip. _He mocks everything we do! He mocks ME! I'll kill him!_

Astrid almost lost her temper, almost went and slit his throat right there as he danced around like an idiot talking to himself in the third person. Thankfully, Arnbjorn's strong arms wrapped around her at that moment, stealing her rage as his warmth enveloped her. He kissed her gently on the hollow of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "Want me to eat him?" he whispered in her ear. Astrid chuckled darkly, envisioning her husband mangling the jester in his were-form. She patted his arm replying, "No, he'd give you indigestion. Then I'd still have to deal with him for several days as he wreaked havoc on your gut." Arnbjorn smirked against her neck. "Might be worth it," he teased.

_Don't tempt me, lover._ Astrid entertained the thought with a secretive smirk on her face before finally sighing in exasperation. She broke the embrace and headed to their shared bedroom. She beckoned her husband inside and latched the door behind them. Arnbjorn dropped heavily into a cushioned chair and reached for a large roasted goat leg that rested on a silver platter. He took a huge bite of the cooked meat, his strong jaws actually crunching through part of the bone, while watching his wife as she paced. In a heated tone, Astrid muttered quietly, "I heard him last night, Arn… talking to someone. He's trying to turn them against me, I know it! I won't have this in my Sanctuary. I have to DO something!" "You sure he was talking to someone?" Arnbjorn asked while wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "He IS a nut job. Maybe he was just talking to himself?"

Astrid nodded; that thought had crossed her mind as well. The problem was she couldn't act until she was sure of treachery. There was too much at stake to gamble an unsubstantiated accusation. She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands, wanting nothing more than to rip her hair out in frustration. "What about the lizard? Sire? Sheer? Whatever her name is?" Arnbjorn suggested. Astrid looked up, "Schyre? Veezara's sister? What of her?" Arnbjorn shrugged, "You said you weren't sure if you could trust her. Why not put her to the test? She's scrawny enough to fit in that coffin. Order her to eavesdrop on the babbling idiot. What she reports back will show you where her loyalties lie. Then you can kill 'em both if need be."

Astrid looked at her husband in surprise. True, he wasn't much of a thinker, but these occasional shining moments reinforced why she had married him. With a wicked grin, she seductively crawled into his lap, taking the half eaten goat leg from his hand and tossing it to the floor. "Hey! That's my-" he began before she cut him off, kissing him roughly. "You were saying? " Astrid murmured in a sultry tone. "Never mind," Arnbjorn said as he picked her up in his burly arms. They retreated to the bed, half-eaten goat leg forgotten.

* * *

Cramped within the confines of the Night Mother's coffin, Schyre tried desperately not to breathe. She knew the corpse behind her had long ago stopped exuding any noxious odors and would only smell of the lotions Cicero massaged into her dead skin, but Schyre's brain kept recalling the scent of decay simply because of her proximity to the corpse. _Why did I agree to this? _she asked herself._ This is so blasphemous._ That was only a rhetorical question though- she knew why she had agreed to it. She and Astrid had been at each others' throats since the arrival of the Night Mother, and she had hoped that doing this would mitigate some of the woman's paranoia. Astrid seemed to sense conspirators around every corner. For the sake of Sithis, she even thought _Cicero_, who could barely form a coherent thought, was plotting against her!

Schyre had enough problems already without worrying that the head of the Black Hand might decide she is a threat. She'd had a rather heated argument over the blatant disrespect that Astrid displayed towards the Night Mother. In retrospect, although she still thinks she is right on the matter, it occurred to her that escalating that disagreement wasn't the best way to win her over. Astrid isn't the type to take dissention lightly, and like it or not she is Schyre's leader, or more accurately the Dark Brotherhood's leader. As aggravating as the woman was, Schyre IS invested in this family until death. If she wants to keep the relationship, she'd have to do what was necessary to keep the peace. So when Astrid approached her with the task to spy for her, she knew it was the best way to quiet the tension between them.

Schyre sighed softly as she shifted her weight in the coffin, recoiling as her scales brushed against the corpse's skin. It wasn't long before she heard the door to the room open and shut as Cicero entered, still talking to himself. Schyre strained to hear what he was saying through the heavy steel door of the coffin. He was… talking to her? No, not her- the corpse she was sharing a space with. "Are we alone? Yes… alone." He cackled suddenly, "Sweet solitude! No one will hear us. All is going according to plan." Schyre gently pressed her head against the lid, straining to listen as he continued in a conspiratorial tone, "We've talked to the others. What about you…? Have you talked to anyone? No. No, of course not. Why, Mother? Why won't you talk to Cicero? We've waited soooo long to hear one sweet word from your shriveled lips. Just one, dear Mother, would be music to Cicero's ears. The silence is soooo deafening." He rambled on like that for a solid five minutes as Schyre rolled her eyes in the dark.

Schyre decided being ordered to spy on Cicero wasn't a test: it was a punishment. The man's ravings were excruciating in large doses, and Schyre was sure being forced to listen for this long wasn't good for her. She was just about to give up and ignore him when she heard a sound behind her. Unable to turn around in the coffin, she simply froze as a voice crept into her head. A soft glow enveloped her as the voice, soft yet strong like weathered leather, touched her mind. "Oh, poor Cicero," it cooed, "He wants so desperately to hear the words meant only for your ears. But he will not hear. No, these words are for you alone, Listener, not the Keeper. So listen well, my child, for I have much to say. When you exit, tell Cicero this: Darkness rises when silence dies. Let him know a Listener has been named and all his patience has paid off. Then travel to the ruins of Volunruud. There you will meet a man named Amaund Motierre. He has something for you. Retrieve it and return to the Sanctuary for further instructions. Go now, Listener. I await your return."

The voice and the unearthly glow left as quickly as they had come. Schyre pushed open the lid of the coffin and gasped for air, no longer caring if Cicero was still there. Cicero shrieked as she burst from the door, his dagger drawn and ready to strike. "What treachery is this? What are you doing in there? DEFILER! You… you DARE! Explain yourself!" he sputtered in rage. Schyre stood her ground as the madman advanced, "Cicero wait! You don't understand. The Night Mother spoke to me. She said I am the one. She named me Listener! I'm the Listener!" Schyre hoped he wasn't too far gone to acknowledge her words. Cicero stopped in his tracks, looking at her suspiciously. Schyre could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to decide if he should believe her or not. He soon made his decision, and it wasn't in her favor as he cried furiously, "More treachery! She only speaks to the Listener."

Schyre suddenly recalled the code that the Night Mother gave and she quickly quoted, "Darkness rises when silence dies." She waited, breath held and body tense. Her brain was in overdrive trying to compensate for his unpredictable behavior should he decide to attack her. Suddenly, a huge grin broke out on his face. He dropped his dagger and grabbed Schyre by the shoulders, practically dragging her around in a circle as he danced and sang loudly, "Then it is true! Listener! It is you! Oh, joy of joys! Wonder of wonders! So very long I have waited. She is back! She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen you! ALL HAIL THE LISTENER!" He let her go and danced a psychotic jig, using his toe to flip his dagger from the floor back into his hand.

As he cavorted about, Astrid ran into the room with her own dagger brandished. A triumphant snarl marred her pretty face as murderous fire lit her eyes. Schyre thought she saw a hint of madness there too, but Astrid's scream interrupted her thoughts, "By Sithis! What is going on here? You!" She lunged at Cicero who nimbly danced out of her way. She eyed Schyre warily, "What has he been up to? Who has he been conspiring with? Tell me!" Suddenly Astrid seemed to remember herself and composed herself, her blank mask sliding back into place. "I heard a commotion and came running. What's going on? Are you alright?" she asked Schyre without much genuine concern in her voice. Schyre nodded curtly as Cicero broke out in song, "I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn't speak to meeeee. She spoke to HER! For she is the Listener and does the listeningggg!" He danced around as Astrid spat at him to stop acting like a fool.

_Listener. Thane. Dragonborn. How many titles can a girl have?_ Schyre thought, not liking at ALL where this situation was going. Astrid stared at her, her face calm and impassive, but her eyes were fiercely burning. "Is that true?" Schyre nodded again before suddenly becoming aware of the increasing tension in the room. "What was said to you?" Astrid asked mildly as her gaze turned harder. Schyre recited the Night Mother's orders to Astrid, watching as the crease on her forehead deepened at each word. When she was finished, Astrid began talking to herself, "Volunruud? I know that place well, but I have no idea who that person is. By Sithis, what does it all mean?" Schyre awkwardly shifted her balance from one leg to the other, wishing she was anywhere but here. "So… I should get going to Volunruud," she commented while starting to edge toward the doorway. Astrid's head snapped her direction, forcefully responding, "No! I… I have to think about this. Go talk to Nazir about a few more contracts. I'll get back to you after I do some research."

Schyre's jaw dropped at the news. She was defying the Night Mother! It was bad enough she had ordered her to infiltrate the Night Mother's coffin, but now she was defying a direct order from the bride of Sithis herself! Anger flooded Schyre, and before she could think to close her mouth she blurted out, "We should do as the Night Mother commands, Astrid. She is our leader!" Astrid leveled a deadly glare at her, replying in a dangerously soft voice, "No… You may be the Listener, but I am still in charge here. Do not forget that, Schyre." Her name fell from Astrid's lips in the form of a menacing hiss, reminding Schyre of the leviathan she had fought nearly a year ago. They faced off, each one judging and assessing each other, daring the other to make a move. Finally, Cicero broke the tension as only he could, "Oh ho! Today is our lucky day! We found the Listener and now we get to watch a girl fight! Please, don't mind me… don't mind me at all." He sat cross-legged on the ground, beaming with anticipation, and clapped his hands together.

Schyre snorted at his comment, relieved to see Astrid visibly relax as she directed her ire at the jester. "Mind how you speak to your superior, jester!" Astrid snarled. Cicero smiled, grabbing his feet and rocked back and forth like a child, giggling the entire time. Astrid made a disgusted noise and returned her gaze to Schyre. Relenting, Schyre bowed her head in mock respect. "Very well, Astrid. I shall go see Nazir as you have r_equested_. I trust we will discuss this when I return." "As I trust you will recall who you are addressing," Astrid replied icily as Schyre started leave, "I am in charge here. No matter what the Night Mother may say." Unable to resist one final jab, Schyre added, "Fear not, Astrid. I will never again forget who our TRUE leader is." She smirked as she left the room, Cicero's mocking laughter drowning out her foot steps as she went to find Nazir.


	9. Family

**Sorry for the delay in Chapters. Lots of life stuff happening. Extra long chapter to make up for it. This chapter is rated M for some self gratification. Truly recommend Halestorm's "Dirty work" ,"I Get Off" , "Innocence" and "Familiar Taste of Poison" songs for mood music. Also "Intensify" (Blind Faith Remix) from Way out West for a *ahem* certain scene. If you are so inclined, could really use some positive reviews to cheer me up. **

Chapter 9

Family

Schyre wiped her blade clean on the back of Lurburk's linen shirt as the would-be bard gurgled on his own blood. It welled up from the surgically precise gash across his throat and pooled on the floor, staining the floorboards red. She casually stepped over his cooling body and reached for the tankard of mead that he left on his bedside table. Draining it quickly, she sheathed her blade and pressed her ear against the door of his modest room. Not a sound came from the Moorside Inn common room; Schyre had made sure most of the inn's patrons were sound asleep before she had dispatched the orc. "Well done, Child of Sithis. Most impressive." Schyre nearly jumped out of her scales as the smooth baritone voice washed over her like a warm breeze. "Lucien!" she hissed as the spectral figure stepped through the dingy walls, "How many times have I told you NOT to sneak up on me like that!" The spirit of Lucien Lachance grinned slyly at her, chuckling darkly, "No harm done, child. Just keeping you on your toes."

"Yeah, well, do it again and I'm dismissing you back to the Void for a fortnight," Schyre grumbled, cracking the door open and peering around the corner, "and stop calling me child." They had been bantering back and forth like this for weeks ever since Astrid gave her the spell to summon the spectral assassin as a kind of peace offering. Schyre openly fumed that Astrid still had not responded to the Night Mother's orders and tensions between them were more than volatile. The last time Schyre had returned for her pay they had nearly come to blows over the issue. To keep her away from the Sanctuary, Astrid continued to have Nazir send her on these piddley little contracts one after the other.

So here she was, stuck in this isolated town and carrying out yet another murder. At least this time the death seemed warranted. The orc "bard" was horrible, even worse than Sven. Schyre wasn't surprised someone paid to have him killed. She was surprised however that she wasn't ordered to torture him first, considering the agony he had been inflicting on others. When he sang the Dragonborn song, several of the customers literally flinched from the sound of his warbling, a sound akin to a rooster and a cat in-heat being drowned simultaneously. Needless to say, he had met with a grisly end at the hands of a certain red-scaled Argonian who was now in the process of fleeing the scene. "The way is clear," Lucien said as she snuck down the hall. It had taken her almost a month to get used to his presence, especially since it seemed she was the only one that could see or hear him. His presence was a double-edged blessing for her: he would silently walk through solid walls and scout ahead for her, but just as often he would deliberately appear next to her unexpectedly, startling her every time.

The first time she had summoned Lucien, she had been unsure of how to react to him. He stepped forth from the blossoming magic like some unholy wraith from a fireside tale, his face completely shrouded by the hood of his robes. "I… live again!" he said dramatically as Schyre raised her brow ridge uncertainly. He then folded his arms into the sleeves of his ghostly robes and leveled his cold gaze on her. Schyre returned his stare for a moment, unsure of what to say. What does one say to a dead man anyways? she pondered. "Yes, my Listener? You summoned me?" the figure inquired patiently. "Er… Greetings, spirit. I am Schyre. Who are… um... were you?" The specter smiled and bowed his head respectfully, "Who I was is of little consequence. I was Speaker once, many years ago. If you desire, Listener, you may call me Lucien. It is the name I held once long ago. As far as who I am… I am your blade, a servant of our Dread Father. Lead, and I will follow, Child of Darkness."

Schyre gasped in naked astonishment, "You were the Speaker?" The visage of Lucien smiled slyly, "Yes, child, though do not revere me. Your position is one of much greater honor." Schyre shrugged, feeling that so far her newly named position of Listener had caused nothing but trouble. Just like another weighty title she had been burdened with... "Very well, Lucien. Come. Our next task from Nazir is to end the life of a notorious pirate. You may prove useful." She looked at the missive that Nazir had given her. Safia. Pirate leader and captain of the Red Wave currently docked in Solitude. She was wanted for several crimes ranging from kidnapping, murder, arson, larceny, to minor offenses like public intoxication and vandalism.

After memorizing the information, Schyre used the Flames spell to set the paper on fire and gestured for Lucien to follow. The road to Solitude would be a long one and she had packed well for the treacherous journey. She was glad the apparition didn't require any sustenance or supplies, for she doubted she could haul enough for two. They walked in silence for a while before Lucien broke the ice, "I remember Skyrim from my youth, and the glistening crimson on fields of white." Schyre looked back at him intrigued. "You've been here before?" she inquired, climbing over a fallen log in her path. "Yes, my duties as Speaker sent me to many places… and had me kill many people." "What was it like back then? The Black Hand?" She tried to keep the question casual, but her curiosity was unmistakable. Thankfully Lucien seemed amicable to small talk, for he merely chuckled as he replied, "Very different from what you know, child. We were not as scattered, as disorganized as the Brotherhood is today. All had a purpose and brought honor and death for our Father and Lady. There was not as much… dissent. …You know, a good Purification may be just what this Sanctuary needs…"

Schyre didn't even try to mask her ignorance- "Purification?" This was the best chance to hear what the Dark Brotherhood was supposed to be like, and this new information was utterly fascinating. Lucien sighed almost nostalgically, "A Cleansing of the Brotherhood. All members are wiped out, one by one, by the Listener, and fresh recruits are brought in. Sadly, our numbers are too few to initiate one, and we need to strengthen our Family. Pity. I did so enjoy the last one." He smiled almost wistfully, "I can still hear their screams sometimes." Schyre stared at him in mute horror, almost unable to comprehend what he had just said. In all the tales of the Brotherhood from her people, none had mentioned the brutal ritual. It completely shattered her perception of the Brotherhood: that they would turn so easily and viciously on their own Family members! "B-but the tenets… they forbade-" Lucien laughed, "Rules are meant to be broken child. We can set up boundaries to make ourselves feel better about our own natures, but the truth is we are all killers. Kingdoms will crumble. Leaders will fall. Morals and ideals decay. There is only one rule that is true: Death is the only constant, and Sithis will claim us all, no matter what."

Schyre thought for a moment, unsettled, and hesitated before she asked him, "How did you die?" He showed no upset to being asked such a personal question, "Have you heard the tale of Mathieu Bellamont, and the great treachery of Cheydinhal?" Schyre shook her head no. "Kill a boy's mother, and vengeance festers in the son..." Lucien began. "When I was Speaker, we had a traitor among the fold. Bellamont was but a young boy when the Black Hand murdered his mother. He swore vengeance on our Family. He joined the Dark Brotherhood and worked his way up the ranks, all the while planning our ruin. When a new Listener was named, he arranged for the Listener to unknowingly murder other high ranking members of the Black Hand. Many went to Sithis' side before I could interfere. By the time the Listener discovered the traitor's identity, I had already been framed and dealt with by other members of the Family. Ahh... it was a good death. They skinned me alive as I hung upside down by my feet. All I could see was red... all I could feel was agony. They were skilled and knew how to make it last for hours. It was… marvelous."

Schyre shuddered, not only from his gruesome rendition, but the euphoria in his voice as he recounted the event. He actually seemed to have relished his death_. What is WRONG with this man?_ she wondered. While Schyre didn't necessarily fear death, she was fairly certain she would NOT enjoy being tortured into an untimely demise. _I shouldn't have asked_, she thought feeling sick. Schyre pressed her lips together in a thin line, upset about this revelation. She decided to pick up the pace to quick jog and just drop the conversation. Lucien readily fell into step behind her, not making a sound as his ghostly visage passed through the brush and snow banks that Schyre had to dodge. The days passed without much incident as Schyre kept up the grueling pace, trying to reach Solitude before the next snowstorm.

When they where a few hours travel from the city, Schyre found an old husk of a ruin to camp in for the night. Schyre sent Lucien on patrol while she built a fire to keep her warm. As she sat down by the fire rationing out her dried meat, Lucien soundlessly leaned in close behind her. "This mark, the one we are hunting… how do you plan to dispose of her?" Schyre nearly launched herself into the fire in surprise as his unbidden voice sounded behind her. "Lucien! What in Sithis' name are you trying to do?! Give me a heart attack?" Lucien gave her a wicked grin, "Fear not, child. If I was to ever do something in the name of our Dread Father, I can guarantee you it would be more than a heart attack."

Unease welled up inside Schyre, churning her stomach with apprehension. Was he threatening her? Warning her? Both? She brushed the ash off her palms and shifted over to the other side of the fire, warily eying the specter. "Well…" she replied, her annoyance spilling over into her tone, "I plan to sneak close enough to the ship to get a clear shot and put an arrow in her throat." Lucien raised a translucent eyebrow. "That's all you plan to do? Surely you jest? Child, you are the hand of a god. The tool of our Dread Father and enactor of our Mother's will. Do not be afraid to honor them with spilt blood. The seas should run red in their names. Your blade should be bathed in a torrent of blood. A quick, quiet death is nowhere near as pleasing to Sithis as a gruesome, prolonged one."

Schyre shook her head and scoffed, "That kind of bravado will serve no purpose, save to get me killed- a concern you no longer have to worry about. What does it matter how they die as long as they get what they deserve and join Sithis in the end?" Lucien's form knelt beside her, his ghostly hand trailing its icy blue fingertips up her arm. The sensation chilled Schyre: hot and cold simultaneously assaulted her senses, freezing her blood while setting it on fire. She couldn't tell if it was painful or not, but the unexpected contact caused a quick hitch in her breathing. Lucien leaned close to her, whispering in her ear, "Why, to have a little fun, of course. To feel their warm blood on your hands. To hear their dying breaths. To see the look in their eyes as they realize that you have ended everything they are or ever could be. Such wonderful… corporeal… sensations."

His fingers traveled further up her arm and caressed the nape of her neck. Schyre flinched away from the intimate contact and reflexively batted his hand away, but her own hand passed harmlessly through him. "Enough!" she spat angrily, standing and peering down at him, "I'll do my job as I please! Death is not something that should be relished in such a manner; it is merely something that is inevitable. I'll not hear this filth! Begone!" With a wave of her hand she dismissed him back to the Void, dispersing him in a cloud of blue smoke. "And don't call me child!"

* * *

The sound of stretching sinew rang in Schyre's ear canal as she drew back the string of her ebony bow. The cord was taut and the feathers embedded in the arrow brushed her cheek as she peered down the shaft. She had the pirate's eye lined up with the tip of her poison laced arrow. She had checked everything: compensated for the strong wind blowing from the south, the steady rhythmic rocking of the boat her target stood on, everything. The shot was perfect, yet she could not loose the arrow. Lucien's voice echoed in her mind. To see the look in their eyes as they realize that you have ended everything they are or ever could be. Schyre lowered the arrow and looked across the bay from her carefully concealed position. Safia stood on the bow of her ship the Red Wave ordering her men about. Schyre wondered how many deaths she had caused. How many ships lay at the bottom of the sea, the bodies of their sailors picked clean by scavengers? How many mothers had cried their loss into the night because of her actions? How many fathers and brothers had never come home? Schyre put away her bow and reached for her freshly sharpened dagger. _Perhaps Lucien was right about one thing_, she thought as a feral smile started to creep across her face. It was time to have some fun.

* * *

The days wore on, blending into weeks, as Schyre took contract after contract. She couldn't stand being in the Sanctuary longer than absolutely necessary- not only did Astrid make her crazy, but she found that Lucien's revelations about the true nature of the Dark Brotherhood had shaken her to her core. She couldn't reconcile her doubt, and the guilt she felt about not immediately obeying the Night Mother made her want to stay as far away as possible for now. With nothing and no one to look to for guidance, Schyre simply immersed herself in her work, doing whatever she could to avoid having to think. As she traveled from town to town dispatching her marks though, she eventually found herself longing for some kind of companionship. The obvious choice was to summon out Lucien again. The former Speaker was a dependable ally, and he had never played her false. The problem was that she was a little afraid of him: she was afraid of what else he might reveal to her, not only about the Dark Brotherhood, but about what kind of creature might be lurking beneath the surface of her own scales.

As an act of desperation to break her solitude, Schyre finally began speaking to her victims, telling them that the Brotherhood sent their regards. The result was not so much a conversation but a range of curses, sobbing, or hysterical screaming depending on the individual. In the end though, they all died, and since corpses weren't known for their conversational skills she was left by herself until the next contract. The irony was not lost on her- invoking this sort of reaction in her target was exactly the sort of thing that Lucien had so intimately suggested she partake in. The longer the days wore on, the less she dreaded the thought of what her ghostly companion represented. Instead, it was mere stubbornness that kept her from calling him from the Void again- she didn't want to concede that there was even a small measure of satisfaction in interacting with her victim, despite the fact that she kept doing it over and over again.

When she finally did summon Lucien again, she was a complete mess. Nazir had sent her to kill some old woman named Agnis who was located in Fort Greymoor. After carving through the throng of bandits that had taken up residence in the stone encampment, Schyre finally met her intended victim. Gray hair pulled back in a staunch bun, Agnis hummed happily as she prepared a meal for the recently-slain residents of the fort. She stood with her back to the entrance, her gnarled hands slowly chopping a carrot. Though Schyre didn't make a sound, the woman spoke loudly enough to address anyone behind her, "Food's not done yet. Come back in an hour and it will be ready by then. I can't get my work done if you keep bothering me." She dropped the chopped carrot into the large caldron suspended over the fire, unconcerned with the presence at her back. "I'm not here for that," Schyre replied. "Oh?" Agnis finally turned, giving Schyre an appraising look. Her eyes flitted across Schyre's armor, bow, and the bloody dagger clutched in her hand. "I see," she said simply, "The others are dead, I presume?" Agnis sat in a chair by the hearth. Schyre nodded, asking quietly, "Were you with them?" "The bandits? No," she replied dismissively, "I merely cook and clean here. Are you going to kill me?" Schyre nodded. "May I ask why?"

Schyre blinked in confusion, thrown off by the simple request, "You mean you don't know why someone would want you dead?" Most of her marks responded with fear or aggression, implying some unknown misdeed that would warrant someone willing to pay to send them to the Void. This feeble old woman had none of that- her gentle tone held nothing but resignation and a bit of genuine confusion. Agnis smiled sadly and shook her head, "No. Never done nothing to no one. Been here most my life. Cooking and cleaning for whoever claimed the place. Suppose I'm guilty by association, though I've often been the only one here with a conscience. Even stopped those boys from hurting prisoners a few times." She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but could you do something for me?" Schyre contemplated it for a second and then shrugged. _I suppose there's no harm in a last request. After all, this is the longest conversation I've held with anyone in weeks. _"Ask," she replied curtly. The woman's tone was light as if she was asking Schyre to run a simple errand, "Can you make it painless? Oh, and be a dear and take some of that stew with you. Hate to let it go to waste after all the work I put into it."

Agnis may have been unarmed, but her words broke through Schyre's carefully constructed wall like the mightiest of hammers. Tears threatening to overwhelm her, Schyre nodded in acquiescence, gesturing for Agnis to kneel before her. As the elderly woman lowered herself on her knees before her, Schyre's hand began to tremble. Agnis gave her a sad smile, lifting her watery eyes to meet Schyre's. "It's ok, dearest," she whispered, "I've had a good long life. No regrets. You've got to stop shaking or it's not going to painless like you promised." Schyre took a deep breath and steadied her hand as Agnis closed her eyes. She circled the Nord and placed the tip of her dagger on the base of her neck. With a sharp jab, the blade slid effortlessly into the woman's neck, severing the nerves and granting her the peaceful death she requested. Silently, the woman's body fell to the floor, a serene smile frozen on her lips despite her bloody end.

Schyre looked down at the body in horror, at the slick wet blood that coated her fingertips. _What have I done?! I'm a monster! A murderer!_ It was too much. Schyre shrieked her rage and pain at no one in particular, kicking over the spit that held Agnis' pot of stew, sending its contents careening into the fire and dousing the flames. She screamed till her voice left her then sat heavily on the stone floor, bathed in the red glow of the remaining embers from the hearth. Her hand hit a bottle of mead that had fallen from the dinner table and without a thought she uncorked it, hastily downing the contents in an attempt to numb her pain.

She would never be able to remember how many bottles she drank before she had the brilliant idea to summon the spectral assassin, but summon him she did with a great, drunken flourish. Lucien Lachance appeared before her, a shimmering being cloaked and hooded with the robes of the Black Hand, "My Listener?" Schyre tried to stand… and failed, so she settled on draping her lithe body across one of the dining hall's chairs. She kicked several empty bottles across the floor as she dragged herself into a seated position. "Hey… hey. Yesh… you," Schyre slurred at him, "Yer… yer a jerk! Ya know wha… I'm… Imma gonna kick-" Schyre lunged at him clumsily with her dagger.

Lucien raised a translucent eyebrow as she fell through him, belly-flopping onto the stone floor behind him. Her dagger skittered across the floor coming to a rest near the wall. "Ughhhh…" she groaned as she attempted to pull herself up. After a giving it a few gallant attempts, she decided the cold stone felt good and just laid there as the specter walked around her. He surveyed the dead bandits that littered the dining area, much akin to Schyre as she sprawled out on the floor. "You've been busy," he remarked, kneeling next to her. "Gahhh… pfff," was all he got in return. Lucien frowned. "My Listener, I do believe you are very inebriated." "Naw scheeit!" Schyre drawled from the corner of her mouth, a long string of drool beginning to form a puddle beneath her face. "In life, I was but a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, but you have been named the Listener. There is no higher honor. Remove yourself from the floor," Lucien chided gently. "Sh-shuddup!" Schyre yelled, rolling over onto her back, "Y-ya don't un-unnershand. I-I killed her. Imma mur-dresh... mur-derder…der. She wassh... in-innoschent!" Schyre weakly covered her eyes with her hands, gripping her claws into her brow ridges. She groaned mournfully and rolled to her side facing away from the specter, curling her knees up to her chin as she mumbled incoherently on the verge of tears.

Lucien looked over at the serene figure of Agnis, still in a heap where she had fallen. He then started chuckling at Schyre, "Innocent? Innocent? You think her innocent because she never wielded a blade against anyone? Innocence is life's greatest illusion, child. All things flourish from the destruction of others. Animals fight and kill each other for dominance and food. Prey animals destroy the plant life around them to stay alive. Even an ivy will choke and kill a tree to maintain its own existence. Humans kill everything around them for survival, for ideals, for pleasure, or even for no other reason except to simply end an existence. It matters not if she lived her life as pure as the driven snow or if her hands were blackened by the foulest deeds known to man. No one is innocent child, and all are equal before our Dread Father. If you so desire a moral righteousness to your slaughter, consider the fact that her death was purchased. By her own admission, she was loyal to no one and freely served anyone that occupied this building. She gave aid and comfort those you would readily cast to the Void. Were it not for her, your client would not have lost something precious enough that they would perform the Black Sacrament to get revenge. Hers was the sin of inaction in the face of evil, if you'd like- it would be the same as if a mother saw her child fall in the river and simply turned away as she drowned."

Schyre had listened to everything Lucien said, and although she couldn't remember his every word, she understood its message. Oddly enough, his words comforted her as the knot in her chest finally loosened. She was annoyed though- it seems as if he was right again, and she pouted at the thought of admitting it to him. "You talk too musch… an don' call me chil..." she mumbled as exhaustion finally overtook her and she passed out. Lucien silently approached Schyre and knelt by her unconscious form. He reached down and traced her jaw with his index finger, privately admiring the rich, blood-red hue of her scales. This shade was his favorite color in life, and it was quite satisfying to accompany one whose body was entirely covered with it. "Go into the darkness, child, and sleep well. I will watch over you." And so he did.

* * *

Astrid reclined with her feet up on the desk, using the point of her dagger to pick the dried blood from under her fingernails. "Astrid." She had trained many years to remain constantly vigilant and not allow her senses to dull, so when Schyre's voice sounded next to her, Astrid actually cut the tip of her finger as she startled. Ignoring the sting from the wound, Astrid looked up surprised to see Schyre standing so close to her- she hadn't heard a sound. That the Argonian's stealth had improved so much over such a short period of time was a great testament to her skill. Astrid felt a moment of pride: though she didn't particularly care for the woman or agree with her viewpoints, Astrid could not dispute that she was a formidable asset… or enemy. The brief sense of pride faltered as this thought crossed her mind. Astrid nonchalantly began turning the blade in her hand as if inspecting it while addressing Schyre, "You've returned. Excellent. I have finished thinking about the Night Mother's… request. To ignore her would be madness, so I have decided that it is time you visit the ruins of Volunruud." She paused for a moment to enjoy the sight of Schyre trying to mask her ire. With a smirk she continued, "Report back to ME when you return. You may go." Without another word she resumed cleaning her nails, and after a long moment the Argonian unclenched her fists and stomped out of the Sanctuary.

* * *

"There are more draugr around the corner. Be wary, my Listener," Lucien warned from the shadows. Schyre nodded her acknowledgement to the specter as she readied her bow. _Good!_ she thought_. I want more target practice._ She was still fuming about her encounter with Astrid and kept envisioning the woman's face on every draugr she put down. She stealthily rounded the corner and ended the draugr before they even noticed her. Carefully, she picked her way over the twisted roots snaking their way across the antechamber's ruined floor. Standing to her full height, she finally approached the copper-inlayed door that led to the secondary room- formerly a waiting area for guests, Schyre surmised. The door opened with minor protest, kicking up dust motes that danced in the few rays of light shining through the cracks in the wall. Two men stood in the center of the room: one finely dressed in rich silks and the other armed to the teeth.

The well-armed man drew his sword at her approach, but did not charge Schyre. "Motierre?" she inquired. The slim silk-clad man gave her a brisk nod and went straight to business. From beneath his tunic he produced a dazzling jeweled amulet with a blood red stone set in the center. Schyre gasped. Never had she seen anything so lovely. It must be worth a fortune! "Take this to Astrid as payment for our... arrangement. And this…" He handed Schyre a sealed letter as well as the amulet, "I suppose I don't have to tell you it's for her eyes only… you being a professional and all." Schyre, who had just opened her mouth to spew forth a series of questions, snapped her lips shut at his reminder. She was already in enough trouble with that woman, and this was the Night Mother's mission. Instead, she nodded silently and departed from the ruins, her curiosity burning brighter than any Flames spell.

* * *

Gabriella watched with barely concealed glee as the Argonian's features shifted from neutral to dismay while she recounted Cicero's attack on Astrid. She took particular delight in the pained expression Schyre wore as she vividly described how the jester's blades ripped through Veezara's hide like a hot knife through butter when he had leapt to their leader's defense. As Schyre dashed down the corridor of the Sanctuary, no doubt to check on her "beloved" brother, Gabriella hummed contentedly to herself as she unhurriedly followed behind the frantic lizard. Arnbjorn had already given chase after the crazed jester; he was out for blood since the fool had managed to hurt Astrid. That he had gotten through her defenses at all impressed Gabriella. She hadn't seen Astrid take a hit in years. There was little doubt that Astrid would send Schyre after them with dual purpose: to both recover Arnbjorn and kill Cicero if he hadn't already done so …or to possibly get Schyre killed in the process_. Such a tragedy!_ Gabriella mused in mock horror, appreciating Astrid's guile. If Schyre survived, she would kill Cicero and rid them of that pest once and for all, and if she didn't… well, no loss.

Gabriella smirked as she witnessed Schyre crouch at Veezara's side and attempt to heal his wounds. _Idiot_, she thought with disdain, _she still thinks she means something to him. Ha! She refuses to see how far gone he is._ Gabriella was unable to hide her smile as Veezara brushed off his sibling's concern; he was busy wallowing in self-loathing over his failure to slay Cicero and didn't care right now whether he lived or died. The hurt that flitted across Schyre's face at the rejection was so raw it sent shivers of pleasure up Gabriella's spine. "Schyre." Astrid's cool voice interrupted her bliss. To her credit, for a woman that had taken such a bad blow to her side, Astrid walked down the stairs of the training area like a queen. Gabriella was in awe. She owed everything to Astrid. Like a newly formed nightshade blossom, she had grown both beautiful and deadly under Astrid's carefully pruning. Gabriella admired the woman to no end. Schyre on the other hand… _I don't see why she can't be compliant like her brother_, Gabriella thought annoyed.

Schyre approached Astrid, and as they talked in hushed tones Schyre wrung her hands and kept throwing worried glances towards an apathetic Veezara. "Schyre," Astrid said pointedly, "kill him. Bring my husband back. Avenge your brother, your family. There is no room for a traitor among us, no matter what his title." For once, Schyre didn't argue- "Any idea where he went?" Astrid shook her head, "No, and with Arnbjorn gone we have no tracker. Try searching his room. Maybe he left some clue." Festus Krex stepped forward and offered Schyre a spell scroll. "He's a slippery bugger, that one. Use this to freeze him in his tracks. Then melt his face off." Schyre took the scroll from him with a look of gratitude as Gabriella rolled her eyes. With one last look at her brother lying in a puddle of his own blood, Schyre gave Astrid a respectful nod and departed for the Night Mother's chamber.

* * *

Schyre and her mount Shadowmere were the only form of darkness in this white, lonely stretch of Skyrim. Though the snow flurries were wont to blanket everything in sight, Schyre's cloak and black leather armor shed the icy flakes before they had time to melt. The spectral horse had been a gift from Astrid to assist in hunting down both her husband and Cicero. Shadowmere had risen like molten tar from the dark ichor and took shape before her eyes. She wasn't positive, but she suspected that the creature was a direct physical manifestation Sithis's power.

She was headed towards Dawnstar to another Sanctuary hidden on the coast. The content of Cicero's hidden journal had clued her to the location and provided the necessary password that would grant her entrance. The story written within painted a picture of who the man was, and now is. He joined the Dark Brotherhood many years ago, at the beginning of the end it seemed, just after that local Sanctuary experienced a Purification. _Just how often DO they feel the need to wipe out their ranks?_ Schyre briefly wondered after coming across the rite again. Cicero was there to indirectly witness the final hours of three of the last four Sanctuaries. In the journal he freely admitted his concern regarding the waning influence of the Brotherhood over all of Tamriel, especially after the former Listener perished defending the remains of the Night Mother during a raid. This seemed to be the catalyst to his dormant mania, for he was obsessed with seeing the resurrected power of the Brotherhood. He was named Keeper by the remaining Black Hand members, and his final contract before laying down his blade to tend to the Night Mother was to murder a jester… _I'd bet 100 gold that it was this kill inspired his current persona_, she mused with a small smirk.

The tale went steeply downhill from there… After months of no guidance from the Night Mother, he had his leader killed by another member after that leader falsely claimed to be the new Listener. An unsettling laughter filled his head within the months of listlessness after that. The last two remaining assassins fell before the year was out: the first to a common bandit, the other to an unknown fate as he left to procure food. Left alone, Cicero took the laughter in his head and changed his spirit to become the laughing jester he is today. His entries after his declaration of rebirth were written in the prose he now spoke in. He mentioned learning that Astrid's sanctuary was operational, but was suspicious of it since there was no Listener to hear the Night Mother speak of the Black Sacraments. He headed to Skyrim to see what she was doing instead, but along the journey decided to go to the Sanctuary in Dawnstar, thinking he could establish an old-style, proper Dark Brotherhood by himself- if only the Night Mother would speak to him. Schyre realized it must have been on that leg of his journey when she met him on that northbound road. After a few more months of silence, he conceded he would never be the Listener and headed to Astrid's Sanctuary with the dual purpose of finding a Listener and to teach Astrid the real ways of the Dark Brotherhood.

Cicero's tale moved Schyre deeply- in spite of his madness, or perhaps because of it, he was truly the personification of devotion to the Dark Brotherhood. Schyre never had anything in her life that inspired an all-consuming dedication, but reading his perspective left her feeling rather empathetic. This posed a problem now- she was still quite upset that her brother had been wounded by Cicero, but she had no real urge to end his life. Her shaky resolve annoyed her_. Some assassin I am right now,_ she sulked, _not even willing to happily strike down someone who hurt one of mine._ Still, putting emotion aside, this was the only proper course of action… right…? _Dammit_! she cursed mentally at herself, _you're letting your pity get in the way of what you know you have to do!_ In the midst of seething at her lack of resolve, a stroke of brilliance struck Schyre- she would call upon the one she knew she could rely on to put her in the mindframe to eagerly dispense death: Lucien Lachance. She smirked grimly to herself as she summoned him out, ready to heed his unfailing counsel on the merits and satisfaction of wanton murder.

Lucien stepped into view from the Void as he normally did, but his demeanor was somehow… subdued. Seeing the demonic horse, he was temporarily distracted in greeting it, "Shadowmere, my old and dear friend." The creature briefly nuzzled its nose to his offered hand, and Schyre mildly inquired, "You know this horse?" "Yes," Lucien answered, "in life she belonged to me." This news surprised Schyre, but his face expressed no real interest to share the details right now. Using this as a cue to get to business, she coldly announced, "We're on an important hunt this time." "I know," he stated, "you are on your way to kill Cicero the Keeper." Schyre looked at him and was dumbfounded to see him frowning at the thought! "That is correct," she continued, "and I learned that his location is fraught with the souls of former assassins, so I will require your assistance to reach him." "My blade is yours," he replied neutrally.

His words indicated nothing but support, but the fact that he wasn't enthused at the mention of the hunt made Schyre uneasy. Trying to provoke his normal fervor, she explained, "He drew his blade against the members of the Dark Brotherhood. By betraying the Family, he must pay with his blood." Lucien nodded his head respectfully to her, "Lead on, Sister." Schyre narrowed her eyes and suppressed a snarl as she set Shadowmere moving again. _I called you out so you could convince ME to look forward to this kill, not the other way around!_ she thought angrily. After stewing for a while, she glanced over to Lucien and snidely commented, "I never would have expected YOU of all people to not jump at the chance to spill blood." His response was unexpected: "I will kill this jester if you so desire, but there is a disturbance in the Void. Our Dread Father does not wish this." Schyre snapped back, "He attacked my brother! He dies!" _Why am I having to defend this against him?!_ she thought incredulously.

Despite her hostile outburst, Lucien's tone was unperturbed, "The jester attacked him as your brother came to Astrid's defense. Did you never stop to wonder why he attacked her?" Schyre halted Shadowmere abruptly to glare at him. The demonic horse pawed the ground in impatience as Schyre finally sighed in exasperation, "Of course I wondered why! Being Keeper and rebuilding the Dark Brotherhood means everything to Cicero. He wouldn't jeopardize his goal without good cause." She dropped a rein to firmly stroke her scar as she often did when frustrated. "Why'd he do it? I… I don't know. There has to be a reason… I just need to know why. I don't WANT to kill him. I actually kinda liked him in an odd way. Besides, he only targeted Astrid. The others were injured only AFTER they interfered." _I can guess why he attacked her though_, she mused sardonically- Astrid made no attempt to hide her disdain for the Night Mother. _Another 100 gold says she insulted the Night Mother in Cicero's presence and he flew off the handle._

"Come on, before we… I… freeze to death." Schyre spurned Shadowmere into an easy run, and it wasn't long before the quaint town of Dawnstar came into view. Schyre gave the town a wide berth and circled around to the coast. As she rounded the cliffs that lined the shoreline, the salty ocean air became tinged with another smell: blood. Schyre dismounted and lowered herself to a crouch, readying her bow. As she cautiously peered over the last rocky covering, she spied Arnbjorn in his human form sitting on the sandy beach. Blood was flowing freely between his fingertips. "Arnbjorn!" Schyre hissed, hoping the lycanthrope's sensitive ears would pick up her voice. True to his nature, he cocked his head in head direction, his eyes scanning the cliffs for her. Schyre stood and went to the werewolf's aid; he wouldn't have openly showed acknowledgement of her presence if there was danger about.

"About time you showed up," he grunted through gritted teeth as she reached his side. "He ducked inside the Sanctuary before I could finish him off. The fool is fast. Another split second and I would've been holding my intestines. I got him really good though. Just follow the blood." Schyre offered him a healing potion she had crafted this morning, but he stubbornly refused. Rolling her eyes at his pride, she instead thanked him for the information and suggested he ride Shadowmere back to the Sanctuary. She watched him limp away for a few seconds; there was something about seeing him wounded and barely clinging to life that didn't entirely displease her. Realizing her distraction, she turned to the entrance. The door pulsed with dark energy and asked its question: "What is life's greatest illusion?"

Schyre faltered, suddenly and inexplicably fearful of the inquiry. She knew the correct answer was "innocence", but for some reason, after hearing the disembodied voice ask that question, she felt as if some overwhelming authority was about to render judgment upon her. Apprehension snaked its way into her mind as she vaguely recalled the last time she was troubled by shattered innocence: the drunken conversation she had had with Lucien. _Isn't that what Lucien has been trying to tell me all along? That the concept of innocence is a farce, an illusion? That no matter what we say or do, it is our nature to kill? …Do I really think this way?_ Afraid to answer her own question, she forced her thoughts off the subject and swallowed the lump in her throat as she finally replied, "Innocence, my brother."

* * *

Cicero lay curled up on the Sanctuary floor, nursing his wounded side. Schyre had to survive a wild goose chase through the Void and back, overcoming a Sanctuary laced with deadly traps, violent spirits, and even a ravenous troll. She had tracked him by following the trail of blood spattered on the floor to a domed room where his gasps of pain echoed off the walls. Despite his impending doom as Schyre drew nearer, her dagger at the ready, Cicero laughed, "So… ho ho... she sent you to finish me off… the dog lord …ha haa! Do what you will… in the end, Sithis will judge us both! But I warn you, the Night Mother will not be happy… No… not at all. " Schyre smirked as she approached the wounded man, "Really? What is she going to do? Spank me?" She was still somewhat angry about him attacking Veezara, but it was hard to stay mad at a fellow that could grin and giggle even while his flesh was torn open. At the very least, she wanted him to sweat at least a little before she officially decided his fate.

Schyre stopped in her tracks as Lucien's grasping hand passed through her arm in an effort to bring her to a halt. She shuddered involuntarily, taking a closer look as he gave her an almost imperceptible nod in Cicero's direction. It was then that she noticed the gleam of a blade concealed in his hand. _Sneaky bastard… He's exaggerating his injury to draw me closer._ She was impressed with his guile, especially given the circumstances. She stopped a respectable distance from the jester, making a mental note to not underestimate him in the future. "Why did you attack Astrid, Cicero? Surely you knew this would be the outcome?" Cicero managed to look righteously indignant, even from the fetal position. "You KNOW why! Words… so cruel… towards poor, undeserving Mother. DISRESPECTFUL! Unforgivable! Intolerable!" he spat in agitation.

Schyre sighed in relieved resignation, sheathing her dagger as she approached him cautiously. _That's what I thought_. She knelt down to study him at eye level. Such devotion. _He loves her, worships her, beyond anything. He never hesitates to defend her name and would die to keep her safe. Such unconditional love- he's like a child in so many ways… but he's also a ruthless killer._ The duality struck a chord within her. She had read his journal, experienced his descent into madness as if it had been her own. He was devotion incarnate- pristine, pure, unsullied in his reverence. A truly guileless man, completely innocent in his motives. And then there was his immense capacity for mayhem, a truly terrifying whirlwind of carnage capable of felling the best. How could two seemingly opposed forces of this magnitude exist within one man? How could she blame him for acting the way he did?

Innocence… The word echoed in her mind. _So, it truly is an illusion then_. A small, unspoken part of her seemed to grieve at the realization. _Maybe it's the death of my own innocence… or I should say naiveté._ She glanced at Lucien who was ready to aid her in killing Cicero, despite his disapproval. Lucien who had guided her, protected her- heck, even nurtured her in a fashion. He had been her confidant and the closest thing she had to friend in all this mess. She felt he was even devoted to her, similar to how Cicero was to the Night Mother. "Go. Flee and find someplace safe," she said finally, her mind made up. "I'll tell Astrid you are dead."

* * *

_Why did I let that stupid man take my horse?_ Schyre wondered not for the first time as she dragged herself through another snow drift. She curled her lip in disgust- this one was up to her waist and she could feel the snow soaking her leathers, seeping in through the cracks and irritating her scales. Dusk was approaching, painting the sky glorious hues she didn't have time to appreciate. Even with her resist frost ring, she was beginning to slow down: her core temperature was dropping rapidly and the flurries were increasing, indicating another snowstorm was on the way. She needed to find shelter, and soon. "Up ahead you will find a landmark known as the Weynon Stones," Lucien commented, gliding silently besides her, "From there we must travel west. There is a small cave I used to frequent in my youth called the Shrouded Grove. It should still remain even after all these years. We must get you there soon." Schyre couldn't agree more and picked up the pace, heartened by her companion's restored manner.

After what seemed like ages, the pitted and frost covered Weynon Stones came into view. Schyre sent Lucien to scout ahead to make sure the alcove he promised still existed- a lot could have happened in 200 years, after all. Finally reaching the edge of the rocks, she ducked behind a sizeable boulder, glad for a slight reprieve from the wind. Drained and half frozen as she was, the robber's presence caught her completely unguarded. "Your gold or your life!" hissed a terse voice from behind her, emphasized with the very prominent tip of a sword jabbing in her spine. Schyre put her hands up showing no resistance while her calculating mind looked for options. The sword at her back did not waver, suggesting he was adept with a blade. Yet, instead of simply killing her and looting her body, he was giving her a chance to surrender her gold without harm… at least that was the supposed tradeoff. Lucien was scouting ahead, and by time she called to him she would already be run through. The brief glimpse she had of him in her peripheral vision suggested he was a fairly hefty man, but something was off. He's missing an arm, she realized.

An inspired idea came to her. "My purse is tied to my belt. It's knotted on really well and I can't take off my belt because all this snow has iced over the buckle. You're going to have to cut it free." Schyre paused a moment, letting it sink in, then offered, "Or, if you'll let me get my dagger, I could-" His predictable response came swiftly, "No! You keep your hands up and don't move. Throw your weapons on the ground, now!" _Don't move and throw my weapons down, huh?_ she smirked to herself. _Not the brightest one either, this one._ Schyre complied and with one easy motion tossed her dagger and bow gently onto the snow-covered ground. "Now," the man ordered, "don't move! Just remember, if I choose, you become food for the scavengers!" Exactly on cue, he closed in to sever the strings of her purse, and Schyre chose that moment to strike. Using her elbow, she delivered a staggering blow to the back of the man's head as her bent to cut loose her purse. Dancing away from his blade she summoned the draconic power within her. "FUS!" she shouted at her would-be mugger, sending him stumbling back onto a weathered rock. Schyre was on him in an instant, grabbing his wrist and repeatedly smashing it against the hard stone until he lost the grip on his sword. She kneed him in the stomach, and as he doubled over she put all her force into a punch that connected with his temple.

As she relentlessly pummeled the man, she saw that her earlier assumption was incorrect: what she had thought was a bulky criminal turned out to be a half-starved man swaddled in pelts to protect his slight frame from the cold. "Please! Please! No more!" he begged, wheezing from his now broken nose. Schyre stopped her assault, looking down coldly at the man. She retrieved his sword and held the blade under his chin, cruelly digging it into the prominent knob of his larynx. "I'm sorry! I wouldn't have hurt you!" he cried, blood streaming down his chin. "I just really needed the gold. Dragons burned down my house and my wife is seven months pregnant. We haven't eaten in a week. Game is scare since the dragons came, and no one will help us." Schyre scoffed, "There's a town not less than a day and a half's travel from here. Surely someone there would have helped you." The man looked away ashamed, "I am not welcome there. If I set foot there, I will be killed on sight for leaving the Stormcloaks."

"You're a deserter?" Schyre asked, mildly surprised.

"No! I mean… not intentionally. My wife, she barely escaped when the dragon burned down our farm. When I got word, what was I supposed to do? Abandon her and my unborn child to the cold? Drag her along with my regiment? She has no family, no one to turn to, and a battlefield is no place for a woman about to give birth. I had no choice! Please, you have to believe me!"

She felt Lucien's ghostly hand touch her back, "My Listener? Is all well? Shall I ...dispose of him?" "It's fine," she replied with a slight shake of her head. The starved man looked confused, thinking she had addressed him, "Fine? It's not fine. We are starving!" Schyre turned her attention back to the man and glared, "So your solution is to mug people?" The man looked abashed, "I… I'm sorry. I was just desperate. You understand, don't you? The Divines have abandoned us. Please, just let me go. I'll find another way, I swear." Schyre thought for a moment. His story was compelling, IF it was true. A man driven to crime to protect his wife and innocent unborn child. _Innocence… an illusion. NO one is innocent_. She retracted the blade and gestured to the tundra. "Very well. You may go."

"Thank you! Thank you for your mercy!" he cried as he shakily got to his feet. She could almost feel Lucien's scowl on the back of her head as they watched him totter off in the opposite direction. "Relax, Lucien. I said I'd let him go… I just didn't say how far," she murmured with a crafty smile as she retrieved her bow from the snowdrift. Without hesitation she let an arrow fly, her smile broadening as it struck the man through the heart. He took one last step and fell over as Lucien laughed maliciously, "Well done, my Listener, well done! You are truly an artist, and blood is your medium as death is your canvas. How you have blossomed… As you stand upon the precipice of the Void, I am reminded of another Listener, a protégé I knew long ago, so long ago. But your skill surpasses even his. One day you will serve our Dread Father as I do now, and I cannot wait to see what your future holds."

* * *

Schyre basked in the balmy glow of the fire, grateful to be warm at last. As Lucien promised, Shrouded Grove offered ample protection from the elements. There was even an existing fire pit that was apparently used by local hunters, judging from the number of bones that littered the cave floor. Still, the rocks reflected the heat and she was out of the wind, which was fortunate since a full-blown blizzard was raging outside. She doubted anything would brave the storm, but she'd sent Lucien on patrol just in case. Schyre was exhausted, overtaxed, and above all else frustrated because she simply could not sleep! It was safe, warm, and there was no denying that her body needed rest, but try as she might she could not calm her mind. She kept replaying the mugger's death over and over again in her mind's eye. Lucien had once told her hope was the cruelest of emotions. She had never really understood what that meant until tonight when she had given that man hope and then stolen it away. It was exhilarating, the very definition of power. If she could, she would have loved to look him in the eye at the moment of her betrayal. That thought brought a smirk of unadulterated contentment to her.

With nothing important to occupy her thoughts, Schyre let her mind wander where it wanted. The more she let her thoughts swirl on that last death, the more she realized something that had been silently growing in her for a long time now. Lately, and this was probably due to Lucien's influence, Schyre had been focused on the physical reactions of the moments before death. The pain, the fear, and the blood, especially the blood. That torrent of red, liquid life escaping a body, especially after an expertly placed dagger strike, arrow shot, or even as the satisfying insult following a punch to the face… The more she saw these things, especially if SHE was the cause of them… It made her feel dominant, powerful, and alive. But in another way… also unsatisfied. Just thinking about it was roiling her blood, and as listless as she was she had no distraction from this pent up feeling. She wanted to go swimming, preferably in less-frigid waters than what the local ocean offered. To be able to strip off her clothes and feel the currents gently envelop her body as she glided through the aquatic terrain. She wanted… contact, everywhere. As the thought dawned on her, she realized such a caressing sensation didn't have to come from being in the water. It had been a long time, too long in fact, since she had any meaningful of contact with another. _It's not as if I'll be able to get to sleep any faster if I don't do this,_ she rationalized.

Taking a quick peek outside to make sure Lucien was nowhere to be found, she stripped herself completely and quickly crawled into her bed roll. The downy wool felt wonderfully luxurious against her bare scales as she got comfortable. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling as she allowed her hands to travel all over her body. She sighed softly as her fingers traced over the muscles she had honed after years of hunting: the ones that had saved her life time and time again. She let her fingertips explore every inch of her body, applying the gentlest touches at first to awaken her nerves and then firmer pressure to magnify the sensations. Before much longer, she surrendered to her own hands as they teased her and stroked her most intimate places. She lovingly fondled and caressed the gentle curve of her pert breasts, tweaking and teasing the sensitive mounds in the places where her scales were the thinnest and most sensitive. Her hands slid further down her lithe body, past her defined abs and came to a rest between her legs. She slowly raised and spread her knees apart as one hand gently traced her inner thigh while the other sought an even more pleasurable route. She bit back a moan as her fingertips found the very essence of her womanhood already slick with need. She tantalizingly stoked the fire that was welling up inside herself, her dexterous fingers torn between delving into her velvety folds and fondling her receptive clit. Unable to restrain herself further, she slid her other hand up to help with the task of stimulating her pleasure centers. A small gasp escaped her lips at the doubled caresses, followed by a quiet rumble that started in her chest and worked its way out as a low moan deep in her throat. The heat in her belly was growing hotter… It wouldn't be much longer now. Her moans took on a sudden higher pitch, turning them into quiet whimpers of pleasure as the swell of her release was about to break.

"Well well. What have we here?" Lucien's voice purred over above her. Schyre's eye snapped open in shock as the ghostly figure of Lucien loomed over her, watching her in her most intimate of moments. "Hmmm," Lucien mused with a Daedra's grin, kneeling right next to her, "I see you took my lesson to heart… How delightful. However, child, you seem to have forgotten: my blade is yours… as are the hands that wield it." Schyre's temper flared, momentarily allowing her to forget the awkwardness of the situation. "Don't call me chhhh-iiii -llld!" Her last word didn't come out quite as she intended since Lucien had reached through her bedroll and joined his hand with hers in the arousal of her body. Schyre gasped, lurching in pleasure as his spectral fingertips brushed her clit. It was as if her entire sex had only experienced phantom sensations until his caress showed her true feeling. She now tingled with both heat and cold simultaneously- a strange, powerful mixture that overwhelmed her senses. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he continued to stroke her, one hand focused between her legs and the other roaming over the rest of her torso. "I am yours, Listener." Lucien whispered. "Use me as you see fit." Schyre moaned and closing her eyes started gently grinding her hips upward in the rhythm of her body's demand.

Soon both of their hands were moving in time, each caress bringing her closer and closer to her limit. His other hand traced her collarbone, jaw line, and neck before coming to rest on her breast. Schyre flinched as pain flared when he located the apex of her breast: the most sensitive area. She looked at him questioningly as he retracted his hand, leaving it hovering over her body. "Pain intensifies the pleasure. Trust me. You are strong. You can handle it." He waited for her response, and when she gave him a slight nod he resumed his ministrations. He was right. The two juxtaposed sensations both competed and complimented each other. Schyre had never felt anything like it, and as her eyes unfocused she let out a low moan and arched her back, pressing her chest up for more contact. Her fingers below were having a hard time gaining any traction, she was so wet. Keeping his thumb circling on and around her engorged clit, Lucien dipped his hand down and curved his long fingers inside her, stroking a particularly sensitive spot on her upper walls causing her to buck and cry out in passion.

Lost to lust, Schyre abandoned any pretext of shyness and positioned her tail at her dripping entrance. She thrust her tail inside her tight confines as Lucien's combined touch continued to torment her. "There is no pain in the Void, Listener. Savor it. Enjoy it!" Lucien murmured in a sultry tone, increasing the pressure. Schyre felt her release building, with each thrust of her tail, each tantalizing touch, each growing sensation. She spread her legs wider and rocked her hips up harder, trying to not miss a moment of pleasure as her tail ground harder and harder into her. Suddenly Lucien removed his hand from her breast and plunged it into her lower belly. Somewhere deep inside, she felt the shock of sensation pressing insistently on the deepest wall inside her. It was so sensitive; it hurt, but exquisitely so! It was too much for her to resist any longer. Arching her whole body and clawing at the bedroll, Schyre's scream of pleasure filled the cavern and echoed off the walls, similar to how the orgasmic waves radiated and flooded over every inch of her body.

Panting heavily and thoroughly spent, she gently slid her soaked tail out of her body, shuddering as her scales brushed against her still-contracting muscles. Unable to speak, she simply stared with half-closed eyes at Lucien as he stood, an oddly satisfied smile playing on his lips. "We are bonded now, you and I. Joined through the powers of the Void. Remember, Sithis takes care of His own," he said gently. "Sleep now. I will stand guard." Schyre didn't respond as he soundlessly glided away. Instead she turned on her side, pulled her bedroll around her and faced the warmth of the fire. The echoes of pain and pleasure reverberating inside her gave her a strange, disconcerted response to his statement of them being bonded. She wasn't at all sure she liked the implication, but drowsiness was rapidly overtaking conscious thought. _Dear Sithis...what am I becoming?_ Unable to keep her eyes open, she finally conceded to think about it in the morning and was soon lost to the darkness.

* * *

Schyre ate her breakfast in silence, having sent Lucien back to the Void. She was too embarrassed to face him after last night. If he was offended by the gesture, he didn't indicate it and simply bowed his head replying, "As you wish, my Listener." The storm had stopped a few hours ago, and the false dawn lit the sky a deep red- the same color as her flushed scales. No longer clouded with the mania and lust she'd carried for a while now, Schyre could finally focus on the important things, and the truths she faced now made her ill. She brushed the crumbs of her stale biscuit from her armor and began the slow trudge back to the sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood.

_It was all a lie- everything my people thought they represented. We put them on a pedestal, thinking they righted the wrongs that others could or would not. That they did the necessary dirty work to pursue justice. We revered them when all they do… all they are ...are murderers. _This was the hardest thing to swallow, accepting that such an integral belief was based on a lie, or at least a grossly mistaken delusion. She didn't know how it started- probably someone couldn't accept that a loved one could kill so easily with no better purpose than to simply kill. They must have been someone influential in order to get everyone else to say the same thing, and then that lie was just repeated over and over again until everyone thought it was the truth. Regardless of the origin, it was a cruel deception- it gave false hope and faith to the people in Black Marsh, but it also perpetuated the practice of children being stolen from their families to continue a cult of killers.

Schyre grimaced in agonized shame to think of how she had adopted that lifestyle as her own. It felt like a lifetime ago, but she remembered a time where she actually embodied the principles of a defender of justice. She championed the wrongly persecuted and eliminated those that preyed on the weak. She was able to walk proudly with head held high, never regretting taking action even if it was violent. Ever since she'd joined the Brotherhood, that pride in her actions had all but been lost completely. She'd spent almost the entire time going about in a numb state to keep from thinking just how wrong it was, deluding herself that she simply didn't understand the good it actually served. She let the beliefs of those around her start to twist her own morals to accept theirs as her own. The murder of that thief last night proved just how far she'd strayed from her Path- everything about the encounter spoke of a man that was not the villain he presented himself to be. He made it a point to loudly and frequently tell her that cooperation would guarantee her life. He was nervous to be robbing someone. A seasoned thief wouldn't behave like that. And hearing his tale… Schyre had thought it was deliberately pathetic enough to be constructed, but the fact was that it moved her to want to believe him. To want to spare him, help him even. Yet the bleak nihilism taught by the Brotherhood dominated what her heart said was the right thing to do, so at the last moment she betrayed her word. At best, if she was wrong about him, she still broke her word, regardless of how she might try to spin it. At worst, if she was right to let him go, then she needlessly took a life and condemned those that depended on him to undeserved hardship. This was the worst of it, knowing she had become the type of person that the old Schyre would scorn and oppose.

And then there was last night's… leisure. Once again Schyre's face burned in shame. She knew there was nothing wrong with doing that sort of thing, but what started it, and what happened during, was what made it wrong. Due to Lucien's continual influence, she'd started to share in his morbid fascination with pain and blood. More than once she'd caught herself fixated on those things lately, but she'd never acknowledged the effect it must have had on her. And then… something about seeing those close to her… Veezara… Arnbjorn… Cicero… something about seeing them in those wounded states must have fed that twisted thing in her. Topping it off with her righteous defiance of Astrid by sparing the jester, followed by the delighted praise she received from Lucien after slaying the fleeing thief… why should the culmination of those things make her want that kind of satisfaction?

_As if the mere desire wasn't bad enough_, _I have to live with the knowledge of what I discovered about myself last night_. The memory almost made her stumble, she was so consumed by the mortification of her responses. It was shameful how great her need was after so many days of seeking blood and revenge, not to mention after committing murder not to long before. But then Lucien came… and showed her just how much she enjoyed pain, even when it was inflicted on her. The feeling of his touch upon her was never really comfortable due to the nature of his spectral form. The dead weren't meant to have prolonged contact with the living. It's unnatural and her instincts always caused her to recoil. But last night, having those pricks of elemental pain in the sea of her body's pleasure… Schyre shuddered at the effect it had on her- at the effect that the memory of it had on her. She'd welcomed it… wanted it… perhaps even needed it. She couldn't remember a time before when she'd orgasmed that hard, ever been that satisfied.

She didn't know what to think of herself now. Part of her was disgusted with herself. It would be easy to simply blame Lucien for it all, to say he did it to her. After all, she never would have thought anything even remotely sexual about this whole business without his mentioning it in the first place, but to do so would be lying to herself. He had not forced a single thing upon her, not even last night- she clearly remembered how she pressed herself against his phantom touch, desperate for more. The problem was they were bonded now, as he put it. Things were too intimate between them. She couldn't share how ashamed she was of what she'd become, because in that gentle, dark voice of his, he would explain with infallible reasoning why she had no reason to be ashamed and every reason to embrace her new self. He was a snake, and she was a bird mesmerized by him. It was just as well that Lucien was a spirit already- if he would have been a flesh and blood man and shared an experience like that with her, she would probably have been lost forever by now to the darkness.

She saw the truth now… if she wanted to ever reclaim who she was before being seduced by all this darkness and death… she'd have to go. What lured her here in the first place was a lie anyway- the Dark Brotherhood, no, Sithis Himself, had nothing to do with restoring the balance to peace. They were concerned only with the number of souls that went to Him, and it didn't seem to matter if those souls were wicked or not_. It might be the natural order for death to be everywhere, but I'm not some murderous beast!_ _I will_ _be the one to decide if I kill or spare someone, not Astrid, not even the Night Mother._ Schyre didn't understand what governed the decisions of the Night Mother to order someone's death or not, but one thing was for certain- for Her to remain indifferent to the perversion of the Dark Brotherhood that Astrid perpetuated, she couldn't blindly follow that kind of guidance.

_There is nothing for me there anymore_, she realized with certainty. _If I stay, it'll be the death of me, the death of the woman known as Schyre. I'm done following this Path. As soon as I get in the Sanctuary, I'll tell Astrid I quit._ Schyre faced the world head on and started an easy run- she still had a long way to go, but she felt like she finally reached where she wanted to be.

* * *

"The task is done?" Astrid inquired of Schyre. Schyre nodded, perhaps a little too quickly, "Yes. Cicero is no longer a threat." _Well, it's mostly true_, she thought. "Is Arnbjorn ok?" she asked, quick to change the subject. Astrid actually favored her with a genuine smile, "Yes, thanks to you." She nodded towards the closed door of their chambers, "He's resting now. He'll be back on his feet in no time. Werewolves heal exceptionally fast."

Schyre fidgeted, unsure of how to broach the subject of her leaving. She had just opened her mouth to speak when Astrid produced the jeweled necklace from Volunruud. "Everything happened so fast I forgot to give this back to you." Astrid took Schyre's hand and daintily placed the amulet in her palm, "Take this to Riften and speak to a man named Delvin Mallory in the Ragged Flagon. He will give you a letter of credit in exchange for the amulet. I can't even begin to tell you how important this is to our Family, Schyre." She clasped Schyre gently on the arm, "I know I can trust you to take care of this."

Schyre looked at the necklace, seeing a reflection in the blood red stone. She nearly dropped it when she realized it was her own visage mirrored in the flawless ruby. A stranger looked back at her. She closed her fingers over the stone to hide the image, silently reassuring herself that there was still time to save herself_. What's the harm in one more mission? I could use the gold, and maybe it will help smooth things over before I leave. Besides, it's just a simple delivery. It's not like I have to kill anyone._ Giving Astrid a tired smile she replied, "Of course you can, Astrid."

* * *

Things went smoothly in Riften, and exactly as Astrid had said, Schyre was now the proud owner of a note of credit. She wondered what all this was about. Delvin had said that the amulet was a one-of-a-kind treasure that is only given to members of the Elder Council. That meant that Motierre was probably a council member. While it wasn't unusual for politicians to try and eliminate each other, it was odd for them to stoop so low as to contact the Dark Brotherhood. While an effective way to be rid of an opponent, if it was discovered that the Black Hand was used, the politician lost influence among his peers- he would never again be able to garner the full trust of his associates if they knew he would employ assassins to solve his problems. A game of intrigue, deception, and carefully constructed sabotage was preferred: to intricately arrange the other's death or downfall in conjunction with one's own rise garnered more respect, favors, and above all power. _He must want the death to make a statement if he's involving us. _Whatever was happening, Schyre was glad she would not be a part of it. The whole situation made her uneasy, but she couldn't deduce the ultimate goal. Trying to figure it out was like trying to open a masterwork lock and missing a key pin- she knew she almost had it, but the last push to make everything fall into place eluded her. _No matter_, she thought dismissively, _I won't be a part of it. Not anymore._

She dismounted Shadowmere and approached the door to the Sanctuary, letting herself in after providing the password. Astrid was, as usual, studying the map of Skyrim on her desk. She nodded a greeting to Schyre, eagerly outstretching her hand to receive the note of credit. Astrid's eyes lit up as she read the paper. 'Schyre, this is fantastic! Do you know what this means? This will revive our Family! Once you kill the Emperor, no one will stand in our way! All will fear the Dark Brotherhood as they rightly should!" _Wait… once I kill… the EMPEROR?!_ "Wha-?" Schyre said dumbfounded. Astrid gave her a wink, "That's who Motierre wants us to kill. Didn't you wonder he why he went through such pains to keep everything secret? Seems he is a very ambitious man looking to rise up in the ranks. My apologies for not telling you sooner- I wasn't sure I could trust you. But now… Well, you have proven yourself. I admit I had my doubts about you, but it turns out you are more like your brother than I gave you credit for. You, out of all the rest here, are the best one for this job."

Astrid might as well have slapped Schyre in the face with a brick. _Like my brother. Soulless, lifeless, ruthless Veezara_. "No," her mouth said before she could stop herself, her voice cracking. Astrid's happy grin wavered, "No? What do you mean no?" Schyre looked Astrid dead in the eyes. "No!" she reiterated with more force, "I'm not doing that. Not the Emperor. I'm not killing for you anymore. I'm leaving." All mirth left Astrid's face as her features twisted with rage. She lunged at Schyre with impossible speed and grabbed her by the wrist, her deceptively delicate-looking fingers crunching the bones beneath them, "What do you mean, you quit? Do you think you can make a fool of ME and just walk away?! Did you think I would let you just waltz out of here with all our secrets?! You think I wouldn't anticipate you letting Cicero live!? You think I don't KNOW that you are plotting to come back here with him and finish what he started!? That you came into MY house and tried to take over!?" Her pitch steadily rose reflecting her ire, her madness.

She dragged Schyre closer to her as the Argonian clawed desperately at her wrist. "Astrid! Stop! Let go!" Schyre shrieked, backpedaling away and trying to open the vise grip of the mad woman. Her talons drew blood as she attempted to free herself, but if Astrid noticed she gave no pause. With her free hand, Astrid seized one of the daggers that kept the map from rolling in on itself. She pulled it from the table with surprising force and slashed at Schyre, cutting a deep wound in her forearm as she tried to deflect the blow. Schyre screamed, latched onto Astrid's wrist and summoning the Flames spell. With a howl Astrid released her prey as her skin began to smoke and char and threw the dagger at Schyre's head. Schyre narrowly dodged the projectile and unsheathed her own dagger, ready to strike should she try that again.

"Astrid, stop this!" she hissed, blood pouring from the gash in her arm. Astrid snarled, nursing her burned limb "Astrid! What's going on?" Arnbjorn and Veezara entered the room, weapons drawn and at the ready. Astrid threw an evil smirk at Schyre for a brief instant before turning to her allies, "She attacked me! She's a traitor! She and Cicero are conspiring to kill me! Kill her!"

"What?! No! Veezara! NO!" Schyre panicked, trying to proclaim her innocence, but it was too late. With no remorse in his eyes, Veezara, her eggbrother, advanced to kill her. Schyre knew then she had no hope of reaching him. He was Astrid's creature, through and through. Arnbjorn went down on all fours, his limbs twisting grotesquely, sprouting fur and elongating. Schyre watched in horror as his face split open, stretching and reshaping itself into a muzzle complete with razor sharp teeth.

The corridor was too narrow for the nearly seven hundred pound werewolf to pounce, so Veezara flanked Schyre, driving her closer to the beast. She narrowly dodged as his clawed hand swiped the air she had just vacated. _I can't get close enough to do any damage with my dagger without him tearing me in two, and I don't have room to fire my bow! _"Kill her Arnbjorn!" Astrid screamed. Schyre ducked behind the central column that supported the hallway to buy herself some time. Schyre's thoughts raced as she tried to formulate a plan. She shot flames from both hands to keep them at bay, praying her mana would last. _The scroll!_ The Ice Storm scroll Festus Krex had given her- she had never used it! If she could freeze Arnbjorn, she might just be able to get past her brother to the door. Taking a risk, she dropped the Flames spell and concentrated on the scroll. She raised her hand to fire the deadly barrage at the advancing werewolf, but she'd underestimated her brother's speed. His blade pierced her kidney at the exact moment the charged scroll was set off. Oddly enough, she felt no outrage at the violation of her flesh- the detached part of her mind simply noted the skill her brother used, and in a way she was proud of him for it. She let out a strangled cry as he twisted and extracted the blade, and the distraction caused the spell to misfire, freezing the support column solid instead of her intended target.

"Move! She's mine!" Arnbjorn snarled, shoving Veezara aside with ease. Job completed, Veezara sheathed his blade and turned to tend to Astrid, never casting his sister another glance. Schyre stood gripping her side in shock as blood gushed from the wound, and the werewolf descended on her. "Never did like you much anyway," he growled, raising his taloned hand for the final blow. As he brought it down on her, Schyre used the last of her energy to fling herself out of its path toward the exit. Arnbjorn struck the column with such ferocity that it shattered into pieces, sending shards of frozen rock shrapnel flying throughout the chamber. He howled in rage as the blast temporarily blinded him, causing him to savagely strike out in anger at anything within reach. Veezara, who had sheltered Astrid with his own body, was now trying not to be rent asunder by the raging werewolf.

Schyre dragged herself closer to the exit, her strength waning as her blood painted the floor crimson red. An ominous rumbling sounded above her head, drowning out Arnbjorn's shrieks as chunks of the Sanctuary's roof began to cave in. With the central support column destroyed, the roof was beginning to crumble under the added stress, showering them all with earth and rocks as it gave way. Dust filled Schyre's lungs as stones pelted her already bruised body. "SCHYRE!" Astrid screamed in fury. Ignoring her, Schyre kept crawling along the ground and reached the way out just as the tunnel gave way completely. She lay on the ground, coughing up blood and dust as the rocks settled around her. After several seconds, the world became eerily quiet. Feebly, she reached in her pack, hoping that just one of her healing potions had survived. She nearly cried when her fingers clasped around the very potion she had attempted to give Arnbjorn a few days ago- it was the only one still intact.

Pulling the cork, she swallowed the contents, groaning as her flesh and organs began to mend. After some time she climbed to her feet to survey the damage, brushing the dust and rocks off her. She glanced around looking for Shadowmere, but the black horse was nowhere to be found. The Sanctuary door had broken off its hinges and was now face down in the rubble. If not for that one piece of evidence, no one would be able to guess the entrance of the Dark Brotherhood used to be here. The cave-in had also caused a mini-landslide, shearing off part of the mountain and burying the entrance under tons of rocks. _That's the only way out!_ In dawning horror, she realized that every occupant of the Sanctuary was either dead or buried alive with no escape. "No! No!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face as she clawed in vain at the rocks, willing them to move.

_I just wanted to leave! Not this… I never wanted this! _She collapsed sobbing upon the pile, grief overwhelming her. Veezara was gone. The people that had called her Family were gone. True, she didn't always see eye to eye with them, but she had shared her life with them. _And now they are dead! Because of me!_ The cold rational part of her mind told her not to waste time mourning- that Skyrim was a better place without them in it. _They tried to kill you!_ her brain screamed at her. "I know… I know. I just… this isn't… It doesn't matter, does it? …What I want…" she muttered to herself. "It simply is. Nothing more, nothing less."

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Schyre placed her hand upon one of the stones, closing her eyes in prayer. "Sithis, may You guide their souls to Your side. May You grant any that still live the mercy that they themselves would not have given others. May their ends be swift and honorable, not suffering in the dark. And…" The words died on her lips. They no longer had meaning, no longer had weight; the sound of her words was hollow in her ears. She was not His anymore. She had rejected this Path, defied the Night Mother and Sithis and destroyed Their followers. Her last plea was going to be one of forgiveness, but she didn't want to be forgiven. Not for this. Not for being true to herself and finally leaving. "And may You go screw Yourself," she stated, withdrawing her hand.

_You're wrong,_ she thought while recalling Lucien's words as she walked away from the ruin. _There ARE still some things in this world that are innocent. Some things worth protecting… Worth dying for. Protecting_… Schyre's memory summoned an image of the dark-haired, war-painted man she had met outside Whiterun. His smile had been open, friendly… and there was an open invitation to join a group of warriors that actually protected people from harm. _Arnbjorn had said he was rejected by them… Something about them disagreeing with his "methods." Well, if he wasn't welcome, then maybe they can't be all that bad. At least it's a place to start_. The past had already been buried for her, literally. She now had a clean slate to build upon, shape, and start her life again. It was time to look to the future: a new Path, one where she could hold her head high and proudly walk in the sun.


	10. New Beginnings

Chapter 10

New Beginnings

Whiterun hadn't changed much since she last visited almost a year ago. Schyre was surprised at how vibrant and full of life everything seemed. The Sanctuary had always been dark, dank, and above all silent. With the exception of someone sharpening their blade on the grindstone or sparring, it was as soundless as the grave. One of the reasons she was glad Cicero had come along was because his singing and occasional rants filled the Sanctuary with something other than the sounds of dripping water. Here, the streets were rampant with the laughter of children and merchants hawking their wares. The sounds and colors assailed Schyre in such a way that it was almost annoying: she had come from a world where sharp sounds and sights spelled danger. This bustling street was overloading her sharpened senses with the simple, everyday life going on around her. Every flash of movement caught her eye; every person walking within arm's reach made her tense instinctively. She only realized how much it irritated her when she found herself starting to cling to the shadows as she made her way along. It was a disheartening realization that she had become _that_ accustomed to silence and darkness. The revelation left her feeling distraught- she used to consider herself a social person. _How much of me changed without me even realizing it? _she wondered. Shaking off her distress, she squared her shoulders and continued to make her way to the Cloud District.

On the way to Whiterun she raided a camp of bandits, picking them off from a distance. Once she had secured the camp, she looted their bodies and assembled a set of mismatched armor together since she didn't dare wear her Dark Brotherhood uniform anymore. She had contemplated burning it- feeding it to the flames in one final act of defiance, but she couldn't bear to destroy it. It was a part of her, and she knew that destroying it wouldn't absolve her of her crimes or her guilt. Instead, she had folded it almost lovingly into her pack and resolved to hold on to it as a reminder of who she had almost become… and what she was fighting to maintain. She earned a few odd glances from onlookers as she clonked past in her mix of glass, leather, fur, and ebony armor pieces. She imagined she must look like a walking display with the variety of armor she was wearing. She stopped for a moment to adjust the ebony breastplate. Not only was it heavier than sin, it chafed her scales and pinched her breasts. _How on earth do people wear heavy armor? I can hardly breathe, let alone move!_ She tugged at the burlap tunic she had pilfered from the camp, counting her blessings that she had not been attacked by a dragon while walking all the way here. _I would have been fried in a second._ She never did locate Shadowmere, which was just as well- she doubted riding into town on that particular horse would have been a great idea. _Nothing says "Hey I used to be a member of the Dark Brotherhood!" like a colossal demonic horse, _she mused, chuckling at her own inside joke.

She stopped short as a squealing child darted in front of her, chased eagerly by her companion in a game of tag. She watched them scamper through the alley until a guard admonished them about running in the streets. The scene brought a slight smile to her lips. _There is still innocence in the world. He was wrong. _She thought of Lucien. She could almost hear his voice, whispering in her ear- _Is it truly me you are trying to convince, Listener? Or yourself?_ She told her mind to shut up; she had not summoned him since she fled the Sanctuary, but it was as if her inner voice began channeling him in his absence. _I will not summon him. Never again! I'll not have his quicksilver tongue whisper to me half-truths, slanting my perception of the world._

She passed the twisted tree that stood dying in the center of the Cloud District. A few pale red leaves fluttered to the ground, creating a solemn scene as the tree surrendered to death. It was a beautiful, if not mournful testament to the cycle of life. Schyre would have like to stay and reflect a moment more, but the constant chanting of the priest of Talos hurried her along. The man was LOUDLY proclaiming his faith to anyone who walked by. Most people ignored him as they went about their daily lives, but to Schyre, it was a barrage of noise that assaulted her ears. _I have nothing against people proclaiming their faith, but does he have to do it so deafeningly?_ She had to admit, the man either had incredible devotion or nothing else to do all day: he hadn't seemed to move from the last time she had visited almost a year ago.

The stone steps to Jorrvaskr were swept clean and seemed to anchor the ship-like structure to the earth. To Schyre, it appeared like the entire city had been built around it as opposed to it being the new construction. _It is…or rather was a ship! _Schyre realized when she came closer, passing through the carved archway. She could almost smell the salty sea air as she spied the petrified barnacles clustered on the overturned stern. Not for the first time since her arrival in Skyrim, she was hit with a sudden pang of longing to go swim. To let herself be immersed in water and drown out the surface world and all its worries, if even for a moment. She sighed wistfully, imagining how wonderful it would feel.

With just a hint of hesitation, she pushed open the heavy iron-studded door and let herself in. The main hall was huge, filled with warmth and smoke from the central fire pit surrounded by an immense horseshoe-shaped dining table. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of roasted goat and the feeling of the radiant heat as she turned to shut the door behind her. "Er… hello?" she called out, "I'm sorry to intrude, but…" Schyre blinked in surprise. Instead of being confronted for entering unannounced like she anticipated, she was completely ignored. The seats at the table sat vacant as all of the hall's occupants were circled around a pair of brawlers. "Come on, ya milk drinker!" came various jeers. "You can take him, Nadja!" one blonde haired man yelled, sloshing his mead around. _Am I in the right place? _Schyre wondered, raising one brow ridge. The two fighters squared off with one another, surrounded by their comrades.

_Well, this is… different. Most organizations discourage violence between members, punishing them for openly fighting. This one actually seems to encourage it, or at least doesn't reprimand members for full contact sparring. Interesting… and fun! If Astrid and I could have beat the daylights out of each other just once, then maybe things wouldn't have been so strained between us._ She contemplated this as she watched a powerfully built Nord woman-obviously Nadja- circle and strike her dark elf challenger. The blow staggered him to the point he almost lost his footing, but he managed to stay up right. He feinted left then swiftly darted in for a low blow to her side. She blocked him with ease and kneed him in the head so hard it snapped back. "Yeah!" several of the onlookers yelled as the woman threw another punch that connected with the Dunmar's cheek, bringing him to his knees. "I yield!" he proclaimed with some dignity, eyes unfocused. Both groans and cheers sounded, and gold was exchanged as Nadja helped the Dunmar to his feet with a friendly clap on his back. "Maybe next time, Athis," she said teasingly, "when you learn to stop hitting like my dead ancestor." Athis just replied, "Ha …ha… ha!" in a mocking tone and sulked back to his seat, wiping the blood from his cheek. The rest of the group went their own ways, some heading outside, some joining the others at the table.

A tall, proud woman approached Schyre in an almost haughty manner. "You come to Jorrvaskr, Hall of the Companions," she announced with fanfare, "Do you seek aid for a worthy task?" Schyre examined the woman, vaguely recalling her from her encounter with the giant. _What was her name? Allie? Lea? It's definitely the same woman though._ The woman looked at Schyre with mild impatience, tucking a wayward strand of wavy red hair behind her ear. "Well?" she asked, her green eyes enhanced by the streaks of war paint that adorned her face. "Actually, I'd like to join you," Schyre stated. The woman's automatic response was incredulous, "You? Join us? We don't take just any milk drinker that walks in." _Milk drinker… there it is again. I'm pretty sure it's an insult, but what in the Void does it mean? _"I am skilled in battle. I assure you, I am no… er… milk drinker," Schyre said carefully.

The warrior looked at her dubiously, and then shrugged, "Perhaps. I am not the one you need to prove your merit to though. Seek Kodlak Whitemane, our Harbinger. He will decide if you are worthy." She gestured towards a small descending staircase. "Hey Aela!" came a booming voice. Schyre looked over Aela's shoulder as a burly dark haired man sauntered over. _This is the same man that was with her back then,_ Schyre recalled. He still had dark war paint smeared around his eyes, but it didn't detract at all from the child-like sparkle they held. He boisterously threw his arm around Aela who threw it back off with a snarl, "Farkas, leave off ice brain! Don't you have anything better to do? Like pester your brother?" Farkas thought for a moment. Then thought some more. Schyre swore she could see the gears in his brain trying to turn over like some ancient, rusted Dwemer machine. Finally, he seemed to decide something. "Nope. Vilkas is with Kodlak. Who's this?" he grinned at her. Aela sighed in exasperation. From some reason Schyre got the impression that happened a lot. "Just some whelp who thinks she has what it takes to join us. We've yet to see if she is strong enough though." Aela turned her back to sit at the table, already dismissing Schyre as inconsequential. Schyre bristled at the woman's demeanor, thinking how easy it would be to take two steps forward and slash the woman's throat from behind. _Sith-… Divines! What is wrong with me?_ she thought as she struggled to control her violent feelings.

"Say… do I know you?" Farkas asked while peering closer at Schyre. The large man cocked his head to the side quizzically, looking very much like an oversized dog. Schyre fought a surge of panic, thinking her identity as a Dark Brotherhood assassin had been discovered. There weren't many members in that group to begin with, plus she was the only Argonian with her coloration in all of Skyrim from what she could tell. That uniqueness was bound to stick in her clients' memories, possibly to come up again in unguarded conversation. Her mind quickly formulated a plan, calculating how to slaughter them all in the most efficient way. _Kill this dark haired man first: cut his throat where he stands. Then the woman Aela before she can reach her bow. Shoot the rest and leave the drunk for last since he's the least threatening._ She planned all this within seconds, her hand unconsciously twitching as it brushed over her dagger.

Farkas ended up being her saving grace. A huge grin broke across his face as he spouted, "You yelled at Aela- about the giant! Right?" Schyre blinked in surprise, consciously relaxing her hand. _How does he remember me from that long ago? _She smiled and nodded in response. "Ha! I knew it!" he exclaimed as he socked her in the arm. It was meant to be a playful gesture, but it made Schyre's arm go numb with the force. _Ow! _she thought straining to keep her smile from slipping. "Are you here to fight?" he asked eagerly. Schyre subtly rubbed the spot on her arm, attempting to get some sensation back without indicating it bothered her, "Um… sure." Apparently that was the right answer, for Farkas seemed thrilled, "Go see Kodlak. He's Harbinger. You'll be a shield-sister and then… we fight!" Schyre couldn't help it- there was something almost infectious about his energy. She offered her own reserved grin and replied, "Yes, we'll fight."

* * *

Vilkas eyed the Argonian woman that stood before him. There was something off about her. It wasn't her mismatched armor or even her strange coloring. She reeked of blood and it rolled off her in an almost nauseating cloud. He knew a predator when he saw one, and the woman radiated both power and death in an unsettling way. "I wish to join you," she said respectfully to Kodlak. _Ha! The Master would never allow one such as you within our ranks._ Vilkas took a swig of his ale, confident that Kodlak would tell her to be gone from their hall. He then nearly choked on it when Kodlak actually acknowledged her, commenting on her fiery spirit. "Master," Vilkas pleaded, slamming down his stein for emphasis, "surely you're not thinking of letting her join us?" Kodlak turned his watery blue eyes towards Vilkas, his weighty stare enough to chastise him. "I am no one's master," he stated slowly, confidently, "and I believe we have enough empty beds here to house someone with a fighting spirit." Vilkas yielded, respecting the Harbinger too much to challenge him further.

With a warm smile, Kodlak returned his attention to the Argonian who had introduced herself as Schyre. "How do you fare in battle?" The Argonian shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Vilkas glared angrily to the side. _Look at how frail she is! I doubt she could even heft my sword._ "I can hold my own," she answered Kodlak, mirroring his confidence. "What does it mean to be a Companion?" she asked. "Hmm…" Kodlak said thoughtfully. "A good question. One many have tried to answer throughout the years. It is a fine line between being an honorable guild of fighters to being a bunch of thugs and assassins. I act as Harbinger, an advisor who keeps that line intact. But, as to how you define the Companions… well, that will be up to you." Kodlak sat back, thumbing his beard while appraising her. He then turned to Vilkas. _Damn! I know where this is going. Maybe she'll fail._ "Vilkas, take young Schyre here out back and test her mettle." Sighing internally, Vilkas stood and began to lead the woman outside. He knew Kodlak had already made up his mind and this was just a formality. "Come on, Come on," he said in exasperation leading her to the yard. _Let's get this over with._

* * *

Vilkas squared off with her in the training yard. Though possessing a slighter frame than his brother, Schyre could not ignore the strength and skill with which he hefted his steel shield. He held it tightly to his body, circling her and goading her to attack him. A few of the Companions had gathered to watch the spectacle, including Farkas. _Damn! I can't find an opening!_ Vilkas was a master with the shield, shifting it fluidly to mirror and anticipate her strike, blocking any chance she had of attacking. _Fortunately, Veezara taught me a trick or two._ She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her brother, now dead or buried under a ton of rock. While Veezara never tried to connect with her emotionally, he had still given her a few pointers on close combat fighting since it was not her forte. _Anything to make me a more efficient killer and better tool to carry out Astrid's orders, _she reflected bitterly. She feinted to the left causing Vilkas to do the same, but her recovery action took longer than she had anticipated. _Stupid heavy armor!_ She cursed, irritated that her movements were slowed by her cumbersome protection.

Predictably, Vilkas was prepared for such an act and thrust out his shield to block her. Instead of striking with her dagger, she used the shield to her advantage, slamming into it with her shoulder and rolling her body off of it. The impact shook her to the very core, but now she was positioned directly behind him. _There!_ she thought in triumph. A gap had appeared between Vilkas' back plate and faulds, exposing his spine. The problem with heavy armor was it offered no flexibility. When the body bent and contorted, the armor would not follow suit and left several defined gaps that smaller blades could easily slip through. When Vilkas had hunched over to brace himself for her ramming the shield, he uncovered a very vulnerable area- one that Schyre was all too happy to exploit and he was too slow to conceal. With a feral grin, she slashed with her dagger, intent on severing his spine. "Vilkas!" Farkas yelled, "Once she whips you, I get to fight her next!" Schyre snapped back to reality at the sound of his voice, recalling what she was doing. She pulled her blade at the last second resulting in a shallow cut instead of a crippling blow.

The witnesses expressed their surprise at her skill and announced Vilkas's loss, but Schyre was deaf to them as she stared silently in horror at the thin line of blood that ran down his back. _If he hadn't called out… if he hadn't brought me to my senses…_ With her full force behind it, the wound would have left Vilkas crippled for life if not outright killed him. She dared to glance at the others, seeing the unease in their faces as they realized the type of fighter she was- unlike the rest of them it seemed, she didn't fight for sport: she would go for the kill at the first opportunity. The only one not disturbed by her attack was Farkas, who was more interested in good naturedly ribbing his brother. He grinned at them both completely oblivious to the tension in the group, eager for his turn to spar. Every one else stood in awkward silence, waiting for either Schyre or Vilkas to react. _Damn! I messed up. They'll never accept me now. What was I thinking? I could have killed him!_

Finally, Vilkas put away his shield and turned to face her. His cerulean eyes reflected caution, surprise, and above all respect. "Well done," he ventured, clearing his throat, "You have passed the first trial to join us." Schyre's eyes widened in surprise. "Don't get too excited," he continued, "You're still a whelp among us. You'll have to take orders and learn to respect your elders. Here." He unsheathed his blade and thrust it upon her. "Take this to Eorlund Gray-Mane for sharpening. He's our blacksmith in charge of the Sky Forge." He gestured to the great rocky formation behind him. Farkas groaned disappointed, "But I wanted to fight." Vilkas approached his brother, clasping him by the arm and leading him away while throwing a wary glance over his shoulder at Schyre. "Later," she overheard him say. "The whelp has chores to attend at the moment."

Schyre watched them retreat for a bit, still reeling in astonishment that he chose to overlook her nearly murdering him in cold blood. _I… I don't understand why. I could have killed him, or worse, crippled him for life. No healing spell would have been able to reconnect the delicate nervous system in his spine. Surely he knew this, and yet he decided to give me a chance. Why? Because Kodlak recommended me?_ She pondered the unusual stroke of luck as she headed up the stairs to the Sky Forge. Reaching the top of the stairs, she tried to shake off her distress and focus on the fact that this was still a great opportunity to become who she wanted to be again. She could still be the Schyre she was in the past: a protector of people and an honorable person. She heard Lucien's mocking laughter in the back of her mind. _Still lying to yourself, my Listener? You know the truth. There is no going back. You have irrevocably changed, and you cannot ever become the person you were. They see you as you truly are. A killer. And they fear you, as they rightly should._ Once again, she told her brain to shut up and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

Eorlund Gray-Mane sat hunched over the grindstone working an axe into a razor sharp edge. Even sitting as he was, Schyre could telling he was an imposing figure, his bare back rippling with muscles earned from many years of plying his craft. She watched in fascination as he expertly passed the edge over the rough surface of the stone with the precision of a master. "Eorlund Gray-Mane?" she asked tentatively, afraid to disrupt his work. The Nord glanced up at her, put down the axe, and stood to his full height towering over Schyre. "Vilkas told me to bring this to you for sharpening," she stated, presenting the sword. Eorlund took the sword with an acknowledging nod, "Yes. I wondered when he would bring this to me." He placed the sword next to the grindstone and gave her the once over, "So, you're the new whelp. Welcome to the Companions, lass." _Well, finally- an actual welcome instead of someone bossing me around!_ .

Eorlund stoked the fire in the forge. Schyre noticed how incredibly hot the flames were, almost unnaturally so. It felt so wonderful in the cool weather that she would have loved nothing more than to walk into them. _You know, if not for the fact I would burst into flames._ "Are you a Companion?" she asked curiously. Eorlund shook his head, "No, I'm not, but I tend the forge and make them armor. I help where I can. Don't let them boss you around, lass. They have a tendency to forget they were whelps once too." _Whelps. Lovely. Nothing like starting at the bottom rung- again. Sigh… Well, perhaps it will be good for me. Less chance to try and slay allies._ "Say, would you mind doing an old man a favor?" Eorlund asked. Schyre shrugged, "Sure." "My wife is still in mourning and I haven't had a chance to take this to Aela yet." He picked up a shield from the forge and offered it to Schyre. "Can you take this to her?" _Didn't you just tell me not to let people order me around? _she thought, but she took the shield with compliance and headed back down to Jorrvaskr.

* * *

"Skjor, I know he's worried about Sovngarde, but it's too risky. As Harbinger, we need him." Aela looked pointedly at Skjor, daring him to refute her logic. He returned a level gaze to her, not budging an inch, "I know that. But he has every right to want to go to Sovngarde like a true Nord. No matter the risk, we can't deny him that." Aela sighed in frustration. She wanted to challenge Skjor to a match, just to have something to take her anger out on, but in her heart she knew he was right. Kodlak was her Harbinger, and even though she didn't understand his choice, she would defend him to the end. She huffed in anger as a resounding knock came on her chamber door. "Enter!" she spat. The door opened and the Argonian woman stepped through, holding her shield. She presented it to Aela advising her Eorlund requested the delivery. Aela looked over her shield, her earlier anger slowly fading. _He's done a fantastic job. _she mused, finger tracing the figures of wolves that he had painstakingly etched along the frame. _It's beautiful._ She glanced at the Argonian warrior who had bested Vilkas. _I never would have thought she would be our newest member. Lithe, dexterous, and goes right for the kill. Not my style, but effective… Hmmm. I misjudged her- she's a woman who can handle herself. She also never boasted about defeating Vilkas; she let her actions speak for her. Reticence is certainly a rarity in these walls._

"Ah, good. I've been waiting for this. Good to see you made it up here. Welcome to the Companions," she said graciously. "I am Aela, a member of the Circle. I thank you for fetching my shield. It is good to have such a dependable Shield-Sister." The Argonian seemed taken aback momentarily, but then extended her hand. "Schyre," she replied, and they shook hands. Aela favored her with a rare smile. "You know this one?" Skjor inquired of Aela. "I saw her training in the yard with Vilkas," she responded with a smirk, "She gave him quite the thrashing." Skjor snickered, "Don't let Vilkas hear you say that." Aela looked over the Argonian. _Hmmm… She might actually be a GOOD addition to the Companions._ "Now, let's show you to your quarters. Farkas!" After a few moments the man lumbered in, stupid grin on his face as usual, "Did you call me?"

"Of course we did, icebrain! Show the new blood to her quarters," Aela instructed. "New blood? Oh, okay! " he replied jubilantly, "This way!" He slapped his massive hand on Schyre's back, almost sending the woman sprawling. She caught herself at the last moment, looking somewhat dazed at the sudden gesture. _Thank the Divines she's quick on her feet. _Aela smirked faintly, feeling sorry for the woman. She shook her head as Farkas escorted her towards the common quarters. _He's decided he likes her. I hope whatever god she prays to gives her strength- she's going to need it._

* * *

Schyre peered around the hulking figure of Farkas trying to memorize Jorrvaskr's layout. "Don't mind Skjor and Aela," he stated, ignoring the fact that he was just insulted by her a moment ago. "They may like to tease, but they are good people. They challenge us to be our best." Schyre quirked her browridge at his assessment. No doubt the huntress was hardy, but it wasn't until recently that she had shown even a little warmth. _'Good people' might be a bit of a stretch. Still, the woman was cordial despite her tone. And I suppose she knows Farkas better than I do. Besides, it doesn't seem to bother him- he just shrugged it off._ Schyre wondered if anything could annoy him. So far, he was the only one to accept her presence here without questioning her worth.

She brought herself back to the present when she realized Farkas was still talking. "…Nice to have a new face around. Gets boring here sometimes. I hope you stay. This can be a rough life. Ok. Here are the living quarters." He gestured to the small room behind him. It was meagerly furnished and had a very utilitarian layout. "You'll be sharing the room with Nadja, Ria, Tovar, and Athis. Sorry," he said apologetically leaning in to whisper, "Tovar snores." From behind him Tovar made a rude gesture, smiling nonetheless. "I do NOT snore!" he replied drunkenly, "I growl!" To reinforce the idea he drained his ale and hunched over, making his hands into claws, imitating a great beast. "Roarrr!" he playfully yelled lunging towards Ria across the room. He began nibbling on her arm until she smacked him over the head with the copy of Kolb and the Dragon she had been reading moments before. Farkas laughed heartily. "See?" he said, "Good people. Now, go make yourself at home, Shield-Sister. Or just pick a bed and fall in it when you're tired. When you're ready for some work, I have a job for you. After you get a few accomplishments under your belt and make a bit of a name for yourself, Skjor or Vilkas might also have some work for you."

_Already? Boy, they don't waste any time putting the new initiates to task. Still…_ She looked over at the sparse area that was to be hers for however long she decided to stay here. _It's not like I packed anything._ A sad statement, but a true one. Other than what was on her or in her pack, Schyre had no worldly possessions. The road had been her home for the last several months, so there was no point to keeping anything more than could be easily carried. The idea of sitting awkwardly with a bunch of strangers and nothing other than her Black Hand uniform to stuff in the drawer suddenly seemed like a VERY bad idea. _Yeah… to work it is._ "I'll settle in later," Schyre replied, "I'm eager to get to work. How can I help?" Farkas' grin widened, "Eager to fight, huh? Good! Your first job is right here in Whiterun. Find Mikael, a bard in the Bannered Mare. He's bothering a nice girl there. Your job is to put him back in line." Schyre's heart sank. _He means kill him? I… I thought things would be different here…_

She struggled to hide how crestfallen she felt, but Farkas seemed to sense something was distressing her. "Hey," he said as gently as he could in his deep baritone voice while clasping her shoulder, "It's your first job, but you can do it. You beat Vilkas, remember? Just go out there, look tough, and show this milk drinker you mean business. No weapons, 'kay? Leave that stuff to the Dark Brotherhood." Schyre flinched at the mention of her former sect. _No weapons?_ "You want me just to rough him up?" she asked incredulously. Farkas nodded emphatically, "See, good fights. Just like I told you." Relief nearly overwhelmed Schyre as he smiled at her encouragingly. "Okay. I can do that," she replied, surprised to find herself genuinely smiling back.

* * *

_What is it with me and bards?_ Schyre wondered as she watched Mikael play from the shadows. The blonde Nord was strikingly handsome and played his instrument with confidence, his harmonious voice carrying clearly throughout the inn. _Too much confidence, _she observed, sipping her Black Briar mead. The man was obviously narcissistic, for he would sometimes dance over to a young maid and play his flute suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows regardless of whether she giggled or groaned at his antics. It would have been cute, if not for the man's boasting to the patrons about his prowess with women. "Once Mikael gets them, they're got!" he exclaimed to no one in particular. Schyre was glad that he didn't fancy Argonian women. _If he tried that on me, I might just skip the talking part and go straight to the fists. Hmm…_ An idea started to form, one definitely born from her mischievous streak. Schyre hid her smile in her cup and waited patiently for him to finish his last song. _This is going to be too much fun._

She approached the bard with her most seductive walk, sashaying her hips with great exaggeration. Mikael greeted her cordially, thinking she was a patron, "Ah, my lady. Have you a request?" "You could say that," Schyre crooned, "Who knew such lovely sounds could come from a Nord?" She trailed her fingers up his chest, wrapping her tail around his leg. "It makes me wonder what OTHER sounds may come from those lovely lips." "Ahhh…" Mikael stuttered, flustered, "As much as I appreciate the attention my dear, I'm afraid you're… ahh… not my type." Schyre deliberately pushed her body against his, running her tail further up his leg. "Really? But I've been listening to every word you've said. You seem to know how to handle a woman. I'd love for those fingers to flit across something other than an instrument." She slid her tail up even further, brushing the tip against his most sensitive area. "Ahh… my little water moccasin," he stated nervously, trying to discreetly shove her tail off his leg while maintaining his composure, "I am otherwise engaged for the evening. I have a lady friend that will be here shortly. I fear she will be very upset if she sees me here with another woman. I'll have to ask you to stop." Schyre twirled the twine that held his blouse together between her fingers, slowly pulling the knot out. "Well, the more the merrier, I've always said. Why not ask her to join us?" She looked at him coyly while blatantly untying the knot this time.

Anger colored Mikael's face as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her off of him. "I said no!" he spat. Schyre smiled, "Oh… I see. So it's okay for you to refuse someone's advances, but not the other way around, huh?" The bard looked confused a moment, and then outraged, "Is that what this is about? Did Carlotta send you here to tell me to back off? Well forget it! That woman is mine! She'll come around. Besides, she should be lucky that someone like me has any interest in her at all, what with her having a kid!" _Yes… Lucky. Not the word I would use in her situation._ "So no matter what I say you are going to continue to pursue her, despite the fact she has no interest in you whatsoever, and has told you this numerous times?" Mikael looked at her defiantly, "Exactly!"

"Good," Schyre smirked, "I would have been disappointed otherwise." Mikael went back to looking confused, "Wha-" Schyre's fist to his nose interrupted his question, sending the bard stumbling backwards. He crashed into the cooking spit, sending it clattering and spreading embers and powdery ash across the floor.

The look of surprise continued only for a moment as he lay on the ground before his features contorted with rage. "Arghhh!" Mikael bellowed while launching himself at Schyre. Though she braced herself, he caught her at her midriff and slammed her into a support beam. She saw stars for a moment as her head slammed into the pole. Schyre elbowed the bard in the head, thrusting him away from her when his grip loosened. Around and around they went, trading blows while other customers either fled or cheered them on. Finally Mikael yielded, broken and bloody on the ground. "Okay, okay!" he cried, "I'll leave her alone! I promise." Schyre looked at him menacingly, "You'd better. If I hear anymore of this, I'll come back and finish the job." The bard nodded, offering his hand for a respectful shake. Schyre took it, surprised at his good sportsmanship. "Agreed. Well done, my friend. Haven't had a fight like that in years." He grinned, "You ever need a bard, I'm your man." He then coughed awkwardly, "Errr… for music that is. No offense." Schyre laughed, "None taken. You're not exactly my type either."

* * *

_Sigh… Farkas was right. He does snore. It's like sleeping next to a saw mill._ Schyre bunched her pillow around her head, trying to drown out Tovar's snores. Finally she relented when it became obvious that there was no way to silence the sound and instead just stared up at the ceiling. Jorrvaskr was a lot noisier than she was accustomed to, and it was odd sharing her space with so many others. She felt on edge the entire time. _Hmm… Farkas and Vilkas get their own rooms. So do Aela and Skjor. I wonder how many people I have to beat up till I get my own._ Her mind's eye conjured an image of her in the Whiterun marketplace holding up a sign that read "Will pummel people for own room." She snorted in laughter, unable to shake the silly image. "Quiet!" Athis hissed irritably. The dark elf's red eyes pierced the darkness, a little more bloodshot than normal. _Apparently, I'm not the only one that can't sleep._ Schyre whispered a bemused apology as she quietly sat up, tossing the fur blanket off of her. She put on her boots, and tucking some pieces of leather under her arm snuck out of the room. After closing the door softly behind her, she tip-toed down the hallway towards the exit. Pushing the door open, she peered into the mead hall making sure the coast was clear. The fire crackled as a log fell further into the flames, sending embers dancing toward the rafters like waltzing fireflies, but other than that nothing stirred in the hall. Breathing a sigh of relief, Schyre let herself out and headed toward the forge.

The night air was crisp and cool with just a few flurries wafting in the wind as she made her way up the stairs to Sky Forge. The hot coals still burned brightly, never waning even in the wind, and offered her more than enough warmth to work comfortably. Schyre smiled and hummed a bit as she happily began crafting a new suit of leather armor. She lost track of time as she stretched the leather, added rivets, and shaped it using beeswax. She tailored each piece to her form until it was a superior fit. The howl of a wolf sounded not too far from the city wall, interrupting her concentration. Schyre looked up from her boots and glanced around, surprised that a wolf would come this far down the mountain. She saw a flash of black dart across the fields of the Battle-Born farm. _What was that? _she pondered, putting down her boots to look over the wall. _Whatever that thing was, it looked HUGE._ The creature disappeared behind the gigantic boulders that speckled the land and didn't reappear. After a bit, Schyre shrugged and went back to her work and the warmth of the forge.

She was just finishing up the sole on the left boot when she was distracted by another sound: the sound of rock scraping across more rock. _What the?_ Putting down her boot, she again peeked over the edge of the Sky Forge, this time in the direction of Jorrvaskr. Farkas stood below, idly scratching a spot on his head. Though Schyre made no sound, Farkas turned his face up to her with a wolfish grin. "Can't sleep either, huh?" he asked. _Where did he come from? _she wondered as she replied simply, "No." Farkas sprinted towards the steps of the forge as Schyre went back to her armor. He sat on the edge of the forge and watched as she worked. "What are you doing out here this late?" she inquired, finishing the stitching on her boot. "Went out for a run," he replied staring at the horizon. "A run? Aren't you freezing?" she asked, perplexed. "Nah. Besides, it's better to go for a run now than when winter arrives." Schyre stabbed herself with her borer. _Winter?! You mean it's going to get even colder?!_ She had always assumed that Skyrim was locked in a perpetual season of winter. It never once crossed her mind that the country experienced seasons like the rest of Tamriel. _Wonderful. So apparently the seasons are cold, freezing, and unlivable. Lovely._ She glanced down at her resist frost ring and decided that she would need and upgrade- soon.

Farkas ran his fingers over the supple leather of the breastplate she had crafted. "Say, you're good at this," he said with raw admiration. Schyre found herself blushing at his compliment. "You also did good with Mikael," he continued. "Carlotta says he's not botherin' her no more." Schyre chuckled, "Yeah. We had a good long talk." Farkas looked confused, "You talked? Oh. I heard you whooped him. Well, good job anyways." Schyre had a momentary internal debate on whether or not to explain what she meant, but Farkas decided it for her. "So, you like to use the bow like Aela?" _Oh, great. Here we go. I'm probably going to get lectured about how killing someone from a distance is not 'honorable.' _"Yes, though I can handle a dagger fairly well," she answered mildly.

Farkas thought about it and Schyre was able to finish her second boot in the silence that lapsed. Finally, she broke the stillness with a question, "Do you know how to use a bow?" Farkas shook his head, "No, Aela once tried to teach me when we first met. She called me hopeless after one practice. I think that's when she started calling me icebrain." Schyre smirked, finishing the last of her armor. She had a few leather scraps left over from her labor. "Well, she doesn't exactly seem the most patient of people," Schyre commented, deliberately understating the obvious. "Tell you what- if you wish to learn, I'll do my best to teach you." Farkas's face lit up. "No lyin'?" He asked hopefully. Schyre chuckled at his enthusiasm. "No lyin'," she responded, grabbing a chunk of moonstone ore off the forge. "However, I can't lend you my bow because I need it. So I'll just have to make one for you." She set to work crafting an elven bow as Farkas asked her about some of the smithing process. She got the impression that he didn't understand half of what she said, but it didn't stop him from asking, and it was nice to have the company. After a time she presented him with the finished product. He seemed delighted, though the delicate bow looked out of place in his oversized hands. "Well, what do you say to at least one lesson before we turn in?" Schyre suggested.

It took a lot of patience… A LOT of patience, but at the end of an hour she managed to have him at least hit the target. "Wow!" he exclaimed as he plucked the steel arrow from the far side of the target. "I did it. Thanks, Schyre!" He swept her up in a crushing bear hug, "Some people say I'm not smart, and those people get my fist." He let her go when she began gasping for air and slapping his arm. "You, I like!" _Dear Sithis- I mean Divines… he's warm._ She felt flushed not only from her proximity to the burly Nord, but the heat that radiated from him. She barely felt the chill of the wind while in his arms. "Um… Thanks." _I think._ She replied, breaking away from him. "Well, it's late. I should try and get to bed. You know, if I can ignore Tovar's snoring." Farkas nodded, sitting down at one of the tables near the training area. "Told you," he stated matter-of-factly, sniffing a leftover ale on the table. Deciding it was still good, he downed the rest of the bottle's contents in one gulp. Schyre shook her head in amusement, turning to re-enter Jorrvaskr. "Hey, Schyre!" Farkas called. Schyre glanced back at the Nord who had fished another bottle of mead off the table. He held it up as a toast. "To new friends!" he supplied with his wolfish grin. Schyre smiled graciously, acknowledging him with a nod. "To new beginnings," she whispered to herself as she shut the door behind her.


	11. Fragments of the Past

**Hello all. Hope you are enjoying so far. This is just a chapter to inspire DAWWS and WFFs (Warm and fuzzy feelings) I'm a sucker for romance. Their relationship is going to be kind a slow and awkward. I'd like to give a shout out to Solrac III ! Thanks for all the reviews! Also my beta AnonJ for helping me flesh out the story and challenging my logic when needed. **

**On a side note, as I was writing this chapter, I was listening to Pandora radio and "Accidently in Love" by the Counting Crows came on and I just died laughing.**

Chapter 11

Fragments of the Past

The sound of her bunkmates rousing barley had any effect on Schyre as she slept soundly on her fur covered bed in Jorrvaskr. After all her late night smithing, she took Farkas's advice and fell into her bed: dead to the world. Not even Tovar's snoring had disturbed her as she dreamt of inventing a wondrous potion that could turn iron to gold and finding a horse that would never die. She probably would have slept till late afternoon if Skjor had not violently shaken her awake. Schyre retained just enough clarity on her whereabouts to not slice his throat with the dagger hidden under pillow as her eyes snapped open in panic. "Up whelp!" he roared! "You can sleep when you are in Sovengarde!" "Huh?!" Schyre replied, blinking sleepily. She stumbled from her bed, rubbing the sleep from the corner of her eyes. Skjor continued to talk to her not caring if she was coherent. "Today is the day of your Proving!"

_Proving? What is he talking about? _She pondered, pulling her armor over her underclothes. Despite the fact that she was exhausted, she was glad she put in the extra effort to crafting some leather armor. Clinging to her body like a second skin, it was flexible, light, and offered her maximum protection. She had even lined the boots and gloves with the pelt of a fox to help her retain some small margin of heat. "A scholar has discovered the location of a piece of Wuuthrad in the barrow called Dustman's Cairn." Schyre looked up from pulling on her boats. "Wuuthrad…. The legendary battle axe of Ysgramor?" Skjor looked surprised that she knew of the mighty weapon. _I can read, you know_. She thought sullenly. She had spent many nights by her campfire, reading through any book she could get her hands on. It had been one of the ways to escape her loneliness. "Yes! The very same. So you can see why this is important! We have been looking for its remains since it was lost in the battle of the Five hundred Companions. You are charged with its retrieval."

"I thought I had already passed your trial?" She inquired with slight exasperation. Skjor smirked. "You mean, beating Vilkas? No. Entertaining, but more too simply to see if you were even worth investing time in. We don't allow the weak within our ranks. Your Proving will be the official initiation. You are fortunate to be charged with such a worthy task. Usually, we just send recruits out to slay a giant or a bear. You get to bring back a piece of Companion history itself."

"So you paid a scholar to look for clues as to where a piece may be?" Schyre questioned. Skjor shook his head no. "No, he volunteered the information. Just this morning." Schyre picked up her bow and followed Skjor out into the dinning area. "That's… uh.. convenient. This scholar, you know him?" Schyre asked, joining the rest of the group at the table. She sandwiched herself between Ria and Aela after a quick greeting to the rest that were already breaking their fast. "No," Skjor said taking bite of the fresh bread that Tilma had laid out. "Never laid eyes on him till today." _Hmm…not suspicious. Not suspicious at all. _Schyre thought sarcastically. _Could the Dark Brotherhood have found me already? Is this some ploy to get to me? A trap? "_That doesn't seem a little unusual to anyone?" She asked no one in particular. The pregnant pause that followed was punctuated only with the sound of chewing and the clatter of dishes as the Companions exchanged glances. Skjor spat out a lump of fat from the goat leg he was gnawing onto his plate. "Harldly," he replied. "We are the greatest warriors in all of Skyrim. It's any true Nord's duty to restore the honor of Ysgramor and report a found shard." She tried again._ "_So a lone scholar, out of the goodness of his heart, navigates a deadly tomb riddled with danger and then just hands over information on what could be the greatest historic find in the history of Skyrim? Without asking for any compensation?" Aela was the first to respond. "Hmmm.. an astute observation. It does seem a bit too coincidental. Perhaps we should exercise caution in sending her there?" Schyre sent her an appreciative smile, but Skjor just laughed. "If the whelp is that afraid to enter the scary barrow, perhaps she has no place among us." Schyre bristled. "This isn't about courage! This is about strategy!" She declared, standing to face him. Skjor carefully put down his goat leg and stood to his full height. "Think very carefully about the next thing that comes out of your mouth whelp." He said dangerously.

"A fair point, Schyre." Came Kodlak's commanding voice as he ascended the stairs to Schyre's left, breaking the tension in the room. The old warrior took his place at the head of the table while everyone stood in his honor. He sat heavily, gesturing for the others to follow suit and served himself a few sweet rolls. "It does seem very convenient that a fragment is found now." He stated stoically giving the senior members of the Circle a knowing looking. "After all, we have been searching for years with no word. It will do us no good to have our newest recruit go in unprepared." He paused a moment, thoughtfully looking around the room. "Farkas." Farkas looked up from the plate of food he had been shoveling into his mouth. "Huh?" He said some-what ignorantly. "You are to accompany Schyre to Dustman's Cairn. Find the fragment of Wuuthrad and return it to us." He looked at them pointedly. "You are to be shield-siblings. Watch each others back and fight with honor." _What?! They are sending the village idiot with me? _She groaned internally. _That's just great. Now I'll have to make sure he doesn't get killed in an ambush too. _Kodlak raised his eyebrow when he saw Schyre's uncertain expression. "Farkas is one of the strongest fighters we have." He told her gently. "Yeah!" Farkas said proudly. "Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor and Vilkas has his smarts!"_ That's not necessarily a compliment Farkas! _"This is your Proving, Schyre. Bring the fragment home and you will be one of us. A shield sister to all and a worthy opponent of our foes. _Foes? What foes? There's something they aren't telling me. Either that or I'm more of paranoid than I thought I was. _Her thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected gesture by Kodlack. He stood and faced her, raising his glass in her direction. "I have faith that you will succeed. A toast to our soon to be sister." One by one, all in the hall raised their tankards to Schyre who blushed under the scrutiny. "May your blade always be sharp and you never run out of enemies." _Somehow, I don't think that will EVER be a problem. _Schyre thought amid the cheers.

* * *

"It's about a week's travel that way." Farkas stated pointing northwest of Whiterun. Schyre adjusted her pack, counting her arrows one final time before they left the safety of the city. _Who needs a horse, when I have Farkas? _She thought in amusement. The man was easily carrying a bulk of their food and supplies, along with his two-handed broadsword without even breaking stride. She had insisted that he take the bow she had made for him so he could practice along the way. _Still, why did they have to insist that he travel with me? _It wasn't that she was ungrateful at the gesture, but she had meant for them to scout out the place or even investigate this "scholar" before blindly sending them into the depths of an primeval tomb. _Of course, it could turn out to be nothing but a colossal waste of time. We could get there and find nothing. _She cast a sidelong glance at Farkas who was casually walking besides her staring off into the horizon. _Two weeks. Two weeks minimum with him as a traveling companion. Well, I suppose it could be worse. They could have sent Vilkas. _She imagined a fortnight in the company of Farkas' surly twin. _Ye gods, I'd be trying to convince myself not to kill him in his sleep after the first few days. _Farkas stopped to examine a monarch butterfly that lit on some red mountain flowers growing between the rocks. Schyre couldn't hide her smile as he gaped in awe as it took off, spiraling skyward. _Yeah, could defiantly be worse._

* * *

The ancient dragon roared in defiance as Farkas slashed at it with his great sword opening up a deep gash on the creature's flank. "Come on!" He screamed with fervor: his smile never wavering. Only two days into their trek, the primordial creature had assaulted them on the open tundra. With no place to hide, Schyre and Farkas had been left no option other than to fight for their lives. Schyre had laced her arrows with her most potent poisons and pumped the beast full of as many arrows as she could. Farkas seemed all too happy to play the role of bait and had run back and forth, taunting the dragon until it landed. When the wyrm came crashing down, Farkas was already on top of it hacking away with his massive blade. Schyre froze for a moment in both horror and admiration as the great sweeps of his weapon sent scales and flesh flying. _He's either very brave, crazy, or stupid! Or all three! _She thought as she closed the distance to the battle, firing arrows all the way. The dragon turned abruptly, smashing its armored tail into Farkas' chest. Schyre was amazed that the Nord just shrugged it off, ignoring the fact that it dented his heavy steel breastplate and yelled. "Is that all you've got?"

Shaking her head in disbelief, she coated another arrowhead with a paralyzing potion, hoping it would buy them enough time to kill the creature. This one seemed tougher than anything she had faced before and right now they could use any edge she could give them. Quaffing a fortify heath potion, she closed in as much as possible to ensure her shot wouldn't miss. Time seemed to slow as she inhaled, drawing back her bow. As she stared down the shaft the world snapped into perfect clarity. She felt her heart beat slow: saw the flash of steel as the sun glinted off of the honed blade: smelt the scent of fresh earth and grass become overpowered by the stench of blood. Herself, her bow and the dragon were the only things that existed at that moment. She eyed the sweet spot in the dragon's throat, just behind the jaw line. _Now! _Time returned to its normal state as she loosed the arrow. It cut a path through the air and sunk several inches into the dragon's flesh, freezing it mid-roar. Schyre dropped her bow and charged the creature, dagger in hand. "Hit with everything you've got Farkas!" she shouted, her blade flashing in a flurry of blows. _Three seconds. Just three seconds. _She thought, calculating how long until the effects of the potion wore off. _One._ She slashed at the vulnerable upturned throat, spraying blood on the earth. _Two. _Farkas severed a chunk of flesh from the shoulder and completely cut off it's right wing. _Three. _Both Schyre a Farkas plunged their blades into the dragon's throat, tearing it apart. The ancient dragon's eyes flickered with just a moment of lucidity as the remains of the concoction wore off before succumbing to death.

Panting, Schyre rested a moment with her hands on her knees. _I'll never clear enough distance. _She determined. _I don't even know if there is a way to get out of range. Best just accept it and get it over with._ As if on cue, the dragon's skin began to peel away like fine wisp wrapping as it disintegrated and burnt to ash. Schyre braced herself, not only for the merging of souls but also the typical response that followed. She closed her eyes as the bright light flooded her senses and the dragon soul entered her body. When it was over, she blinked rapidly and straitened, waiting for the barrage of questions that Farkas would have. To her surprise, he neither seemed to notice, nor care about the mystical event that just transpired. Instead, he seemed more focused on poking the dragon remains with the tip of his great sword. "Damn!" he stated in disappointment. "I was hoping I'd get to see what dragon meat tastes like." He looked at Schyre, smiling as usual. "I'm hungry. I think I saw a deer back there." He said indicating back east with his sword. "I'm going to go and bring us back some fresh meat." He scanned the horizon a moment before pointing out the distant figure of a deer to Schyre. "Ah, there it is! Be right back." He stated starting to walk off. Schyre stood dumbfounded for a second, her brain unable to register what was happening. "Wait!" She called after him, confused. He stopped and turned back to face her with a questioning look. "That...it doesn't bother you?" She stammered, gesturing to the dragon corpse. It was Farkas's turn to look confused. "The dragon?" "No!" Schyre corrected. "I...I mean the fact that that I'm the Dragonborn?" Farkas looked at her a moment, then shrugged. "Should it? You're still Schyre right?" He stood perplexed moment more, lost in thought. "Am I supposed to be upset? Damn... I'm sorry Schy-"

"No, no... not at all. It's just...well... everyone else..." she tried to explain, but he just looked more confused. "You're... you're not like other people, you know that?" He flashed her his best grin. "I know. I'm not too good with...thinking, but, I.. Oh! it's getting away!" Distracted, Farkas bound across the field in pursuit of the deer that had caught their scent and was fleeing farther east. "That's not what I meant..." Schyre replied quietly to herself as she watched him take chase. _Wait...is he? Please tell me he isn't trying what I think he is. _Schyre groaned and facepalmed. Apparently Farkas had completely forgotten her archery lesson from a few nights ago and was attempting -very unsuccessfully- to kill the deer with his great sword_. _Of course the deer wouldn't even let him get close enough to try, so it just ended up with the big Nord taking a swing at nothing, cursing in frustration and running a few more steps to repeat the process all over again._ Either that, or he's forgotten he has a bow all. Divines help me _she thought, rubbing her scar in exasperation. She sighed, resigned that this was some form of morbid karmatic punishment from the gods for her sins. She shook her head in amusement as he tried again an unbidden smile sneaking up on her. _He never gives up, does he?_ "Farkas! Wait up!" She yelled equipping her bow and running after him. _Ah well, can't beat em... join em._

* * *

It was Schyre who actually brought the deer down in the end. Farkas had eventually remembered that he owned a bow and made a few valiant attempts to shoot it, but the man could barely hit a stationary target let alone a moving one. When she caught up to him, he was concentrating so hard on aiming that the tip of his tongue was jutting out of his mouth. It took a joking comment about getting frostbite while standing around waiting for him to bring it down before he allowed her to take the shot. They cleaned the carcass and stripped it of everything useful before returning to their trek. Twilight eventually claimed the sky, setting the stars twinkling as they decided to make camp for the night. Since there was nothing to shelter them from the wind in the open tundra, Schyre used her flames spell to clear a space for camp in the snow and set to work making a fire. A couple hours later as the stars came to their full brilliance, Schyre and Farkas were eating the dinner she prepared while the rest of the venison meat smoked over the fire for travel rations.

Farkas belched loudly and patted his stomach after he finished his third bowl of venison stew. "That was delicious!" he commented. Schyre gave him a small reserved smile, "Well, it _was_ your idea." Farkas grinned, "It was a good one, right?" She nodded, fishing out a lump of venison and devouring it to hide her smile. He watched her as she finished the rest of her food and set to scrubbing her dishes with a handful of freshly fallen snow. "Is that all you're going to eat?" Farkas asked, eyeballing the remains of the stew. "You cannot POSSIBLY still be hungry!" Schyre exclaimed in disbelief. Farkas just grinned sheepishly. Schyre shook her head, bemused, "Go ahead. I'm full. Besides, it's not like we can take it with us. But I am NOT carrying you the rest of the way if you get sick." Farkas greedily scooped up the rest of the stew and consumed it in just a few bites.

After storing their supplies, they decided to turn in so they could be up at first light. Schyre burrowed deeper into her furs and gazed at the twin moons as they lazily drifted across the sky. _I wonder what he's thinking about… If he thinks at all, _she pondered, throwing a glance in Farkas's direction. "They're really pretty, aren't they? The stars. " she commented. An innocent smile stretched across his face. "Yeah. Sometimes I come out at night and just watch them. Did it look like this where you came from?" Farkas asked, motioning skyward. "Hmmm… yes and no. It's been a long time since I just sat down and looked at them. In Black Marsh if you spend too much time staring at the sky and not paying attention to what's going on around you, you tend not to live long."

"What's it like there? I've never been outside of Skyrim," he inquired. "Very different from here," she stated immediately. "A lot warmer for one thing, with trees so huge it would take at least twenty men to circle the trunk of just one. The village I lived at was surrounded by rich red earth. Every morning the artisans of the tribe would gather it up to craft pottery for trade. They would band together near the water's edge, each at their pottery wheel, creating items etched with our clan's history. The waters were murky and filled with danger, so one of the elders was always on watch for creatures that lurked in the depths. It wasn't much, but it was…" She trailed off, unable to finish the rest of her sentence. She closed her eyes as a wave of homesickness hit her so hard it was nearly physical. _Home. It was home._ She thought she had found it here. Home- at the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. But that had been nothing but a trick she'd played on herself. Now, here she was again. Adrift… Still looking for where she belonged. _I should never have come here. I should have just stayed in Black Marsh, found a mate, and raised some hatchlings. I would have never become the Dragonborn, never killed all those people… never known the truth about Veezara… never…_

"It's still the same sky," Farkas said, startling her from her spiral of regret. Schyre rolled over to face Farkas, propping herself up on her elbow. "What?" she asked, watching him as he star-gazed. "The sky, the moon, the stars- they are still the same ones you grew up under. That's why I like them. When I was a pup, Vilkas and me, we had our Proving when we were thirteen. They sent us out to hunt a mammoth. It was three days travel from Jorrvaskr and I was terrified. I had never left the mead hall before and everything was so big and dark and scary. The very first night on our own I wanted to go home. Vilkas called me a milk drinker. He was right. I almost fled, but that's when I realized: they are always there. The stars. The same ones I saw every night from Jorrvaskr. I take them with me wherever I go, like a piece of home. After that, I wasn't as scared anymore. Vilkas still called me a milk drinker though. So I beat him up the next morning. Gave him a black eye." He grinned at the memory, no doubt reminiscing about the thrashing he gave his brother.

The largest moon was now directly overhead. The same moon she had seen every night from her bedroom window back in Black Marsh. The same one whose rays she had both danced in and hunted in. She found herself smiling, her self pity melting away. _A piece of home, huh? _she thought, surprised at his strangely wise insight. She looked at the mighty warrior that was sharing this journey with her. _You don't see the world like the rest of us do you?_ Feeling better than she had in a long time, Schyre got back under her covers and closed her eyes. "'Night, Schyre," Farkas said contentedly. "Good night, Farkas," she mumbled before slipping into darkness.

* * *

Schyre awoke from her peaceful, dreamless slumber to the sound of Farkas yawning loudly as he stretched his arms skyward. "I'm hungry," he announced, seeing she was awake. "Sleep well?" Schyre nodded, noting the fire had burned to almost nothing in the night. She got up and added more kindling as Farkas rolled up their beds and unpacked some food for breakfast. Since they had slept in their armor, it didn't take too long for them to eat a simple meal of dried fruit and porridge. After cleaning up the campsite they resumed their travels beneath the sunless sky. They walked in comfortable silence- Farkas fascinated by the track of their footprints in the snow stretching back to the horizon and Schyre warily watching the skies for inclement weather. After about an hour, the ominous clouds Schyre had been watching grew darker and unleashed more snow from the heavens. Though the flurries were sparse, Schyre noticed a dip in the temperature that caused her worry. She unconsciously began to rub her arms and hands in a futile attempt to get warmer.

"Smells like a big storm is brewing," Farkas suddenly said, tilting his face to the wind. _Smells? Do I even want to know?_ "Well, let's hope not. I can't stand the cold," Schyre mumbled. Farkas must have heard her anyways, for he responded in a confused tone," What's wrong with the cold?" Schyre looked at him with mild surprise, both at his ignorance and the fact he had heard her. "Well…" she said, thinking how she could best explain it, "I'm an Argonian." Farkas glanced her up and down and nodded, "Yup." The look on his face showed that he completely agreed that she was indeed an Argonian. "And as an Argonian, I'm a reptile. Reptiles are cold blooded." He looked like he was having a hard time thinking of her as being all three things at one time. She could see him mentally doing the addition. Argonian plus reptile plus cold-blooded equals Schyre.

She sighed, rubbing her scar, "I can't create my own body heat; I can only use heat from other sources to warm myself. The colder it gets, the colder I become, and I have no way to warm back up again on my own." She came to to a standstill since her travel partner couldn't think that hard while walking straight on their trackless path. Farkas thought about it. And thought some more. Just as Schyre was about to throw her hands up in exasperation and walk away, he had an idea. His eyes suddenly lit up like someone struck a match behind them. "Oh, you mean… like a fire!" _Like a… fire? He has no idea what I'm talking about. And I have no idea what he is talking about._ "You know… a fire can't start itself," he explained. "It relies on something else to create a spark. Without that- no fire. So… kinda like a fire, right?" Schyre thought about his analogy for a bit. _A fire, huh? Well, that's a different way of looking at it. I suppose it's technically correct. A fire needs external factors to exist or produce heat, like fuel and air, similarly to how I need an external heat source to get warm._ She couldn't really think of a more accurate comparison that he would understand, so she simply shrugged, "Yeah, kind of like a fire. Except if it gets too cold, I die."

"You die?" Farkas asked, suddenly concerned. She waved it away with a dismissive gesture from her hand. "Not right away," she informed him, continuing towards the barrow. "First, everything slows down. Reflexes, thoughts, heart rate, everything. Then I just… fall asleep and never wake up. Considering all the horrible ways that I could die out here, like getting eaten by a dragon, freezing to death is the least of my concerns. Besides…" She flashed her Resist Frost ring at him, "This little ring helps me tolerate the cold. Not by much, but enough so I'm not constantly frozen." He softly took her hand and examined the enchanted ring as they walked along. "It's pretty. It almost looks like it's glowing," he observed as the magic sheen caught the light. "What does it do?" he inquired. Schyre gently took her hand back before answering, "It's enchanted with a resist frost spell. It helps to ward off the cold." Farkas looked at it dubiously, "Magic?" She immediately picked up on the slight disdain in his tone. _Why are all Nords so terrified of magic? I'll never understand this culture._ "Yes, Farkas. Magic. Magic that is very necessary to me." Farkas seemed thoughtful for a moment and then turned to grin at her, "Don't worry, Shield-Sister. You don't need magic- I'll protect you!" Schyre snorted in laughter, "From the cold?" Farkas nodded in agreement, not catching her sarcasm, and stated with all seriousness, "Yes. And the dragons too."

* * *

Another half inch of snow fell on the fourth day of their trek, further adding to Schyre's discomfort as she stomped through the slush. If not for Farkas's unintentional humor and good natured companionship, she would have been in a much fouler mood. _If we get there and there is no shard… If all of this is for nothing, I swear I'm going to go back to Jorrvaskr and throw a snowball right in Skjor's face. After I spend a few hours defrosting in front o f the dining hall fire pit, that is. Speaking of snowballs…_ She watched as Farkas walked ahead of her, completely oblivious to her devious plans. With a sly grin, she scooped up a handful of moist snow and formed it into a tight ball with her aching hands. Taking aim, she launched it as hard as she could at the back of Farkas's head. The ball of ice and snow exploded in his hair, and Farkas stopped mid-step to look back at her.

His typical wolfish grin broadened into a predatory smile as he scooped up a handful snow. "So, you challenge me Shield-Sister?" he asked, advancing confidently. "You think you can best me?" He playfully tossed the snowball he'd formed back and forth between his massive hands. Schyre cringed slightly when she realized the size difference between his snowball versus hers. "I know I can!" she shouted with bravado, crouching down to spring out of the way of any oncoming missiles. Farkas cocked his to the side, studying her before hefting the snowball and aiming it straight at her. Schyre squeaked as she dove for the nearest cover, but she wasn't quick enough and the snowball disintegrated as is smashed against her rump, spraying her back with ice.

"Yow!" she hollered, rubbing her tail. Farkas laughed triumphantly as she hastily formed another snowball and launched it his way. It hit him directly in the face and his laughter ceased for a moment while he wiped the snow from his eyes and mouth. Schyre sprinted ahead of him hoping to clear the distance before he launched another volley of snowballs. Thanking whatever gods were listening that the calf deep snow didn't trip her up, she ran down the road towards the small bridge that came into view. The rustic stone bridge crossed a small stream that flowed to to the north. Schyre skidded on the ice-covered cobble stones, daring to take a look back at Farkas. The burly Nord was gaining on her despite the weight of his armor. Schyre shrieked in excited panic as she gripped the side trying to hurry across the sloped, ice-covered structure to the other side. It was then that she noticed the snowball he had tucked under his arm was bigger than her head. _There is NO WAY I'm letting him hit me with that! I have to hide!_ Seeing no other place to take shelter, she skirted down the bank intent on hiding beneath the bridge. Her boots splashed into the ankle-deep water as Schyre ducked under the archway. Once down there she realized that there wasn't much snow since most of it had washed away or melted in the creek. _Crap! No ammunition._ She pressed herself against the cold stone as she heard his weighty footsteps overhead.

"Hiding is not very honorable, Shield-Sister!" Farkas scolded playfully. "Why not come out and fight?" Schyre scooted further under the bridge, listening to his voice to pinpoint his location. "Why, so you can hit me with a giant snowball?" she asked incredulously. Farkas hesitated for a moment then replied, "Yes!" _Well… at least he's honest._ Schyre chuckled quietly before shouting back at him, "That's not much incentive for me to stop hiding then. Sorry, I'm staying down here until you get rid of that thing." "I could just come down there and deliver it in person," he teased. "True," Schyre replied, "But I'm much faster than you and would be back on top of the bridge before you made it all the way down. Then you would be at my mercy. You would only have one snowball, whereas I would have the advantage of height, speed, and plenty of snow to arm myself with. You wouldn't last two seconds!" She heard Farkas grumble for a moment then jumped as the giant snowball plopped into the stream bed a few feet away. He peered over the edge of the bridge, grinning down at her. "You fight just as well with words as with swords, sister. Very well- a truce, for now." She thought about it for a moment, then decided he wasn't clever enough to deceive her. "No lyin?" she asked, just to be sure, gazing up at him. "No lyin." He held up his empty hands as she stepped out from under the overhang. They stood a moment simply smiling at each other in camaraderie. _I can't remember the last time I've been in such good spirits. It's hard to tell if it's the smiling or the cold that's making my face hurt. It's like… like I forgot what it's like to be happy._

Before she could reflect any further on the thought, she saw Farkas's features shift to apprehension as he looked behind her. Instantly on the alert, she drew her dagger and spun around. An immense mud crab rose from the sludge near the landing site of the snowball. Angered by the intruders and the disturbance of its home, it waved its claws menacingly as it advanced on Schyre. She tensed her muscles, ready to strike at the most vital and vulnerable spot when an arrow soared over her shoulder. It split the crab's shell in two, killing the creature instantly. Schyre looked back in surprise at Farkas whose shocked expression mirrored her own. "Farkas! You did it! That was amazing!" she exclaimed with excitement. He scratched his head sheepishly and put his bow up, "Uh, yeah. About that… I wasn't aiming. I mean, well, I WAS, but it kinda… slipped." Schyre gave him a deadpan look, "What do you mean it SLIPPED?" Farkas shrugged, looking away embarrassed, "Well, my hands were all numb from holding the snowball. I was trying to get the arrow on the string and it just… slipped." Schyre groaned, putting her head in her hands, realizing just how close she had come to getting shot in the back. _Well, that was my mistake. The first lesson I should have taught him was the safe handling of a bow. Guess we'll just have to work on that._ She breathed out a long sigh to calm her nerves before removing her hands from her face. "Thanks, Farkas," she said, "for protecting me like you said you would." _Even if you almost killed me in the process._ She gave him her best smile to show she meant it. Farkas's face lit up as he accepted her complement. "Told you," he replied proudly.

* * *

Schyre sat with her eyes closed, focused, as she held the piece of mud crab chitin under her tongue. Though the taste wasn't unpleasant, the texture left much to be desired. _I feel like I'm eating an insect,_ she thought as she rolled the crunchy piece around in her mouth. She already knew most of the properties the ingredient possessed, but since her alchemic skill had grown she hoped she could ferret out the last remaining effect. "I don't think you're supposed to eat that," Farkas said watching her skeptically. She opened her eyes and looked at the Nord who was busy enjoying a mudcrab and eider cheese sandwich. Giving up, she spat out the chewed up piece of shell, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She rejoined Farkas at their makeshift camp near Redoran's Retreat and took her half of the sandwich that he offered. "If you're that hungry you can have mine too," he said jokingly. She playfully punched him in the arm, hurting her hand more than him, and took a bite of her lunch.

"I wasn't eating it. I was testing it for its alchemic traits. I have to taste the items to find out their properties, which is sometimes horrible. Some of them are just DISGUSTING. Like giant toes." She shuddered at the memory of the giant's toenail coming off in her grasp. Farkas pondered this for a moment and then commented, "You mean for all those potions you are carrying around. To make them you had to actually taste those things." "Yes," she replied, pleased that he understood, "not all of them are sickening though, just most of them." She smiled into her meal thinking on what he said. She waited until his mouth was occupied with a large bite of food before gasping in feigned horror, "Farkas… have you been going through my pack?" He froze momentarily, and the expression he wore made it worth it- he looked as guilty as a child caught with his and in a cookie jar. Even without asking, she knew he had been in there. In the morning her pack had been slightly askew. She didn't mind really: she had given him permission to take what he needed at the beginning of their expedition. Besides, there wasn't anything in there that she wouldn't want him to see.

Before they left Whiterun on this assignment, she had excused herself from the group under the pretense of buying supplies for the road. While she did need some items, her true goal had been to hide her Black Hand uniform, extra potions, and the gold she had been toting around. To her surprise she had amassed over eight thousand septims in what she could only describe as blood money. She had looked down at the fat purse and felt nothing but regret. _So… this is the value of all those lives._ It felt wrong to have them reduced to nothing but metal disks stamped with the image of the Empire, but what was done was done. Taking her gold, she had visited the general store and paid Belethor a handsome sum for a storage chest with a masterwork lock and a false bottom. While the others were training or talking to Kodlak, she hid her old uniform under the secret panel. Then, placing her remaining gold and half of her potions and reagents in the chest, she slid it under her bunk. With the key securely in her belt pouch and the false bottom to fool the ignorant, she felt fairly confident that her secret was safe. She doubted that anyone in Jorrvaskr had the skill to pick a lock, much less a masterwork one. _They'd probably just try to smash it first anyways,_ she concluded dryly.

"Yeah," Farkas admitted finally, pulling her thoughts back to the present. "I got up last night and was really thirsty, so I drank one of the red ones." _A red one, huh? So a healing potion or stamina restoration. Thank the Divines he didn't drink a poison one!_ "Well, be careful," she warned, "I keep my poisons in there too. Believe me, you don't want to drink one of those." Farkas chuckled, "I know. They're green for a reason. Like other gross things. Like cabbage." Schyre laughed imagining the face of her foes if she used the dreaded cabbage "poison" on her dagger. "I'm sorry you have to eat those things. Especially if they taste as bad as cabbage." He made a revolted face. _OK. He is NOT a fan of cabbage. Glad I didn't bring any with us for a rousing pot of cabbage stew._ They laughed together for a bit, enjoying the rest of their lunch.

"Oh, speaking of red!" Farkas exclaimed as he finished brushing the crumbs from his fingers, "This is for you." He quickly fished something from of his pocket and held out a silver and garnet ring. Placing it gingerly in Schyre's upturned palm, "The mudcrab had it in its stomach. I found it when I was removing the guts. It reminded me of you, so I thought you should have it." Schyre looked at the ornate ring she held in her hand. The silver band was etched with scrolling spirals circling a bezel-set, blood-red garnet. It was stunning. _It… it reminded him of me? Is that because it's red… or because it's beautiful?_ Deciding that she was reading too much into a kind gesture, Schyre put the ring on her middle finger even as she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, "Thank you. It's lovely." Farkas beamed at her, "Yes, yes it is."

* * *

_Well, that's impractical._ That was the first thought Schyre had when they finally made it to Dustman's Cairn. She had expected something on a grander scale, like at Bleak Falls Barrow with its spiraling towers and ancient majesty. Instead, she got a hole in the ground. She stood there a moment trying to figure out how anyone got out after a heavy snowstorm. _Maybe Skyrim was more temperate back then?_ She tried to imagine the land _not_ drenched in snow and failed. "Everything okay?" Farkas asked. "Yeah… just thinking of the past," she responded. _The past… Will I ever do enough to make up for it? Ever get back what I lost?_ Farkas equipped his great sword, the massive blade perfectly at home in his hands. "No time to think of the past, Shield-Sister. Focus on the now. Let's go kill some draugr and get that shard back." He charged eagerly down the steps, grinning like a child with a sweet roll. Shaking her head, Schyre soon ran after Farkas into the gloom of the underground catacomb.


	12. Brought to Light

**Hello all. Sorry for the delay. I actually finished this about a week ago but have been very ill. Feeling better now, so her ya go. Alot of this happened in game. Farkas and my character didn't get along well at first because he kept doing stupid things and almost getting me killed. Ah well. I learned to work around it. Sadly, seems that way with any follower if you are a sneaky type. Most of the tiome they just get in the way. Enjoy!**

Chapter 12

Brought to Light

As Farkas pushed open the ornate door to Dustman's Cairn, Schyre gagged on the musty smell of dust and decay that permeated the air. An open ante chamber greeted them, drenched in looming shadows from the flickering oil lamps that were sparsely scattered around the perimeter. Draugr corpses littered the cobbled floor, their twisted limbs and pale flesh adding to the already macabre atmosphere. Several of the corpses were positioned like they had been killed as they emerged from their crypts. _Someone has been here recently, _she thought. "Someone has been digging here," Farkas mumbled, echoing her thoughts. She nodded in agreement, notching an arrow. "Be on your guard," she whispered, crouching to sneak forward. She gritted her teeth in frustration as she heard the horrible din caused by Farkas's heavy armor grating together as he knelt to mimic her stance. She took a couple of steps flinching at every clink and scraping sound his steel armor made. _Ok… I don't think this is going to work._ "Farkas," she whispered, "I'm going to scout ahead. I need you to stay behind me by several paces." Farkas frowned at the thought. "I'm supposed to protect you," he said with a scowl. "How can I do that if I'm that far away?"

Schyre sighed mentally and suppressed the guilty feeling she had for what she was about to do. _I hate to manipulate him, but it has to be done. He makes too much noise and I know we are walking into an ambush._ "You were told to watch my back, right?" Farkas thought quietly for several seconds befor answering, "Yup." She continued, "So… as long as you can see my back, you are doing what you are supposed to, right?" Farkas looked at her unsurely, his brow furrowing, "I guess…" "I'm not very far away and I won't go out of sight," she concluded while pointing ahead, "You will be able to see me the entire time. I need you to make sure no one ambushes me from behind. Okay?" His brooding expression was replaced by an open grin. "Sure, but stay away from the tombs. I don't want to have to carry you back to Jorrvaskr on my back," he teased. Schyre rolled her eyes in exaggeration as he chuckled. With Farkas securely out of the way, she continued onward, only stopping to pick the lock on the nearby chest and to quickly flip through a book that caught her eye on the table. _The Battle of Sancre Tor_, she thought while skimming the book's contents before slipping it into her pack. _Eh… looks like some basic knowledge on two handed weapons. Not my style, but knowledge is power. Maybe I can sell it for a decent price._

They descended further into the catacombs and before too long came to a series of tunnels lined with the dead. "Schyre!" Farkas whispered in warning. She gave him a curious glance and saw him pointing ahead as he gripped his blade, readying for battle. Turning her attention ahead again, she peered closer at the darkness and strained her ears as she cautiously continued. As she neared the end of the long tunnel, she finally heard it: a soft clank of armor followed by a low, dry moan. Ahead, a draugr Overlord restlessly paced around the center of the large burial chamber, his great horned helmet glinting in the torch light. _How did Farkas hear that from that far away? _Schyre pondered as she lined up her shot. She drew the bowstring back with all her might as the undead thing turned its face towards her direction. _No wind to compensate for. Eye socket in line. Full draw, maximum damage. Perfect_. Her fingers released the shaft just as Farkas dove in front of her shot, yelling in full Nordic battle rage, his Skyforged greatsword held over his head. Schyre's mouth gaped open in horror as the arrow meant for the draugr pierced Farkas's side, instantly downing the huge Nord and alerting the creature to their presence. _No! No, no , no NO! YOU IDIOT!_

Farkas groaned in pain, doubled over and clutching his ribs where the arrow shaft protruded. He tried to stand, but could do little other than scramble across the ground as the Overlord advanced. "Farkas!" Schyre called in warning while standing from her crouch; there was no sense in sneaking now. As she tried to make her way to her wounded companion, draugr were emerging from their slumber on both sides of her. Their numbers quickly swelled as the undead warriors all advanced for the kill. The Overlord paused briefly to stare down at Farkas with soulless eyes. Then, as if deciding he was no longer a threat, it turned away from the injured warrior for more lively prey: Schyre. "FUS RO DAH!" It shouted from its horribly distorted mouth. Schyre was violently sent flying backwards off her feet and through the air as the full force of the Thu'um hit her in the solar plexus. She crashed and tumbled clumsily in the tunnel she had just emerged from, unable to breathe as the wind was forced from her lungs. Gasping, she scrabbled as best she could further down the hall, trying to bottleneck the emerging draugr so she would have some small chance of survival. Ignoring her vertigo at the sudden flight and the burning of her lungs, she nocked another arrow and let it fly. The Overlord didn't even noticed as the arrow punctured its chest and it swung its ancient sword at her.

The narrow hallway stopped the creature from being able to cleave her in half, but Schyre bit back a cry of agony as the blade hacked into her shoulder. Her dark blood splashed on her scales, giving them a slick wet gleam and staining her armor. Barely able to grip her weapon, she thrust her bow out and smashed it in the draugr's face to buy herself some time. The other draugr crowded behind the Overlord, all trying to reach her with their various weapons. Schyre set the creature on fire with her Flames spell and downed a healing potion as she back-peddled frantically from another devastating sword strike. Abandoning her bow for now as the potion's effects mended the gash on her shoulder, she unsheathed her dagger and laced it with venom. She struck her target and cursed in frustration as it resisted the effect and lunged at her yet again. She narrowly dodged the third blow, finally becoming aware of some commotion behind the swell of undead. Unable to see what was happing, and not daring to take her focus off of the Overlord, Schyre furiously swung her dagger, chipping away at its unfeeling flesh.

She chugged another potion to fortify her one-handed skill and dodged in a semicircle around the creature's blade, attacking its exposed sides with all of her might. The fight continued like this: dodge, augment her skills, and loose a ferocious whirlwind of dagger strikes until it finally fell to one knee. With no time spare as two draugr scourges closed in, she finished the Overlord and began desperately attacking the others that took its place, trying to keep them from pinning her on either side. Schyre was more than surprised when one of the undead suddenly keeled over as Farkas's greatsword ran it through. "Farkas?" she said in shock, momentarily forgetting the imminent danger. Blood was pouring from the wound in his side as he shook the corpse from his blade. Schyre had just enough time to register the fact that he had _literally_ cut a path through the remaining draugr to get to her before the second Scourge was upon her. The draugr fired an Ice Bolt that pierced her leg just over her knee. Schyre did cry out this time as the icy spear caused the flesh around the wound to blacken with frostbite. Summoning her Flames spell, she dared to turn her attention to melt the ice before it caused further damage as the Scourge raised its axe over her head. Still in the middle of casting the spell, she vaulted with all of her strength between its legs, hissing in pain as her leg failed to support her. At that same moment, Farkas bashed the creature's back with his sword-clenched fist, sending it stumbling and throwing off the chop meant for Schyre. She was able to glimpse the battle-raged expression he wore as Farkas pounced towards the Scourge, seemingly oblivious to his own injury. With a wild roar, he drove the entire length of his weapon into the torso of the creature, fully lifting it from the ground with the force of the thrust. The thing immediately went limp and slid easily off of downturned blade to rest on top of its already dead bretheren.

"Heh," Farkas commented, panting and falling to his knees while cradling his wound, "now THAT was a battle!" Schyre was instantly overtaken by a storm of fury. "You MORON!" she screamed, whirling on him, "I TOLD you to stay behind me exactly for this reason! Are you TRYING to get us both killed? I didn't want you here for this anyways! I could have handled this just fine by myself- ALONE!" She was near tears from the pain and stress of the previous battle; her hands trembled as she cursed and belittled him with every insult she knew. Finally, when her voice cracked from strain, Farkas looked up at her and asked, "You done?" There was no sarcasm in his voice, no aggression in his posture; he just wanted to know if they could move on. _Is that all you have to say? I just screamed at you for five minutes and… Oh… You're bleeding. Badly._ Schyre looked at the copious amount of blood running through his fingers and onto the dusty floor. _Sith- Divines, you lost a lot of blood. How are you still conscious? And why did you get up and insist on attacking them, you dolt? You should have just stayed down. I could have handled it… I think…_

She sighed and knelt beside him as gingerly as she could with her hurt leg. "Let me see," she said quietly, prying his fingers off the arrow shaft. The dwarven arrow was buried deeply in his dense muscles with only about a fourth of the shaft exposed. She rubbed her fingers across her brow scar as she realized what she was going to have to do. _No point in healing him without removing the arrow. It's deep, but at least it looks like it missed his vital organs. I don't smell bile or anything else besides blood. I'm going to have to push it out the other side. If I pull it out this way, it will just do more damage and possibly sever arteries or organs. Or the arrowhead will break off and be stuck inside him._ "Um, Farkas…" she began, unbuckling the side of his breastplate, "I have some bad news." "'Kay," he answered simply. She stated grimly, "I need you took take off your armor for a minute. I'm going to have to push the arrow through the other side to get it out. It's going to hurt… a LOT. You're going to have to stay as still as possible. Okay?"

Farkas hefted his heavy armor off and casually tossed it to the side with one arm as if it was made of paper. "And this," she said tugging at his blood-soaked tunic. Noticing the fabric was tangled around the arrow, she helped him gingerly lift it over his head. _So broad…_ She found an unexpected flush rising to her cheeks as the Nord's muscular back was exposed. Clearing her throat, she focused on the task at hand and stripped the feathers from the shaft. Grasping it firmly, she asked, "Ready?" Farkas gave her a look out of the corner of his eye, "Got a choice?" _Not unless you want to leave the arrowhead embedded in your gut and die a slow, painful death from internal bleeding._ "No," she instead replied. Farkas gave her a brisk shrug and Schyre pushed before he could change his mind. He grunted in pain as the arrowhead burst from his side. Working quickly, Schyre grabbed the protruding arrowhead and pulled the shaft through him. She flung it away and placed her hands over the gushing wounds, summoning her healing abilities to seal them before he lost more blood. As the golden light enveloped them Farkas looked at her with a mixture of confusion and awe. "Wha? Hey… That feels good." He nearly sighed in contentment, causing Schyre to snicker despite the fact she was still angry at him.

"What about one of those red drinks?" he asked studying her glowing hands. "I only have a few of those left," she replied, drinking a restore magic potion before she continued to heal him. "We need to conserve our resources. Magic doesn't cost anything but energy, and I can recover _that_ fairly quickly." He let her work in silence for a while as she focused on restoring his flesh. "Sorry," he eventually said after several minutes. Schyre didn't say anything for a while at the reminder of his thoughtless action; she had been so focused on healing him that she momentarily forgot just how angry she was. But, since he brought it up again, fire flared in her gaze as she glared at him, "YOU'RE sorry? You almost got us killed. _I_ almost killed you! What were you thinking?" Farkas wasn't paying attention to her reprimand though; he was instead looking at the wound on her leg. The blood had stopped flowing long ago, but the lesion was in bad shape with its jagged, blackened flesh and bruising that was rapidly spreading. "You're hurt," he said in almost a whisper, touching her leg softly. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt." He turned his gaze to look at her, dark eyes showing raw agony, "I wanted to kill it before it got to you. It looked mean. And dangerous. It was turning in your direction. I thought I could take it out before it could try to hurt you."

Schyre looked at him perplexed, "So… you did it to protect me?" Farkas beamed his disarming smile, reflecting only a hint of the pain he was in. "Of course! I told you I would protect you." Schyre sat quietly for moment as she healed herself, reflecting on what he said, her ire slowly melting away. She sighed as she finished the task, "Look, Farkas, I've gotten used to fighting by myself for a while now. Trust me when I say I could have taken it down with one shot. The reason I wanted you to behind me is so I wouldn't shoot you. The next battle we get into, try not to rush out into the fray or I may shoot you again." _And it might not be accidentally,_ she thought sullenly. "Look- just promise me this. If the only way for you to fight is to get in front where I'm trying to shoot my arrows, just stay behind me. Keep the enemies off me while I take my shots. You will act as my shield: dispatching foes that get too close so I can concentrate on taking them out with my bow. Will you promise me that, Shield-Brother?" Farkas quirked his head slightly, "Your shield, huh?" He grinned at the idea, "Yeah, okay. I can do that, Schyre. No lyin."

"Good," she said retrieving her bow. He stood, throwing on his tunic after examining his side. Schyre tactfully averted her eyes as he poked and prodded the new flesh, examining her handiwork. He donned his armor with ease, buckling it back in place. After sheathing his sword, he nodded to Schyre to take the lead. The two picked their way over the draugr corpses, and once on a clear path again he fell in step behind her, keeping enough distance to allow her to move freely but never letting her out of his sight. _So, you CAN learn. Hmmm. It seems as long as I explain the reason why an action is important he is willing to be cooperative,_ she thought as she guided him through the catacombs. "Schyre?" Farkas whispered. She paused, glancing back at him expectantly. "Thanks," he said, "for saving my life." _Even though I'm the one that shot you, you're still thanking me?_ She shook her head slightly, a small smile curling her lips, "Anytime, Farkas. Anytime."

* * *

_NO! No, no, no, no! Why did I throw that lever!? How could I have been so stupid?! _Schyre thought as she rattled the solid brass gate that separated her from Farkas. She had pulled the lever hoping it would open another chamber and lead them away from this dead end. Instead, it trapped her in this small room. It all happened so fast that she couldn't think straight. One second Farkas was teasing her about getting into trouble, and the next thing she knew he was surrounded by several well-armed mercenaries. They proclaimed themselves to be the Silver Hand as they crawled out of the tunnels like swarming insects, radiating nothing but malice. She paced behind the gate like a frenzied animal, trying to think of a way to help her companion while stuck behind the bars. _I can't get a shot off! The space between the bars is too narrow. I can't even use my destructions spells without setting myself on fire in the process!_ "Which one is this?" a female asked, gesturing to Farkas with her weapon. "It doesn't matter," a Redguard male answered, "He wears the armor, he dies." _Dies?! NO! Here I was not even an hour ago lecturing him about making a stupid mistake that almost got me killed, and I turned around and did the same thing to him. All this time he was trying to protect me, and I should have been protecting him. I'm such a fool. Oh Farkas, I'm so sorry!_ "Farkas!" she screamed, pounding on the gate, "Run! Don't try to fight them, just run! Leave me!" Farkas instead smiled at her and gave a slight shake of his head, "Sorry, Shield-Sister. I'm not leaving you."

One of the Silver Hand smirked as she advanced on him, sword drawn, "Good! I love a good fight. This will be a grand tale to tell one day." Farkas just laughed, the small smile on his face never dissipating, "Yeah. Pity you won't be alive to tell it." Schyre stared dumbstruck as Farkas hunched over and began to double in size. Black fur erupted all over his body as the bindings of his armor snapped audibly. The metal pieces fell to the ground with raucous clanging as his limbs elongated and fingernails grew into claws. _He's a werewolf! _Suddenly, it all made sense. Farkas's sensitive hearing, Arnbjorn's comments about the Companions, and the dark figure she had seen sprint across the Battle-Born homestead that night. Farkas howled a challenge as the Silver Hand attacked. With a few well-placed strikes from his razor sharp claws, he tore them all asunder with bestial strength. Almost as soon as it started, he reduced his would-be assailants to a gruesome pile of blood and body parts. _Oh no! What if he's gone feral? Or can't control himself and attacks me? What if I have to kill him?_ She backed away from the gate while reaching for her dagger. Farkas looked at her a moment, let out a soft growl and then turned and ran down the newly opened tunnel disappearing in the gloom. _Or… he could just forget about you and leave you to rot in here. _"Farkas!" she shouted rushing back to the gate, rattling it in desperation, "Wait, Farkas! I changed my mind! Come back! Don't run! Don't leave me here! I take it back!" She screamed as loudly as she could, hoping he would hear her and recognize her, but the only sound that greeted her was the echoes of her own voice.

Schyre banged her forehead against the entryway in a mixture of frustration and irritation. She closed her eyes and leaned on the lattice trying to think of a way out of her prison, and what she would tell the other Companions if she managed to succeed. _How about "Sorry I lost your brother, Vilkas. Here's a shard of Wuuthrad instead, a valuable piece of Companion history that will supplement for the loss of your beloved brother. What's that? Oh, you want to battle to the death in the courtyard."_ Her imaginary conversation with Vilkas was interrupted as the gate slid open, causing her to fall forwards without its support. She grunted as she hit the stone ground, sending up a cloud of dust. _Ow… What happened? _She watched as a pair of very large, and very dirty, human feet approached her prone form. "Sorry, hope I didn't scare you," Farkas chuckled above her. Schyre looked up at the Nord who had changed back into his human form… and immediately looked away when she saw he was still very naked and she was eye level with a rather prominent part of his anatomy.

She quickly stood up and busied herself with gathering his armor to hide her embarrassment. "So…er… you're a werewolf?" She picked up his breastplate, purposefully keeping her gaze on the armor to avoid staring directly at him. "Yeah. Members of the Circle are given the gift. We can become like wild beasts. Fearsome." She turned over his greaves, dismayed to find all the straps snapped. "Are you going to make me a werewolf?" she asked, more to keep herself from thinking about the fact that a nude Farkas was directly next to her. She caught a glimpse of his thigh as he walked by and had to spin on her heel suddenly when he bent over to retrieve his boots. "Nah, only members of the Circle have the beast blood." She heard him grumble when he realized all the buckles had broken. "Here," she said gesturing for him to set down the armor, "I have some leather strips in my pack and can replace those. Put them down by the throne." Farkas obediently placed his damaged armor on the dais near the primeval throne and then proceeded to poke around with the enchanter as Schyre went to work. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the armor she questioned Farkas, "So… all the Circle are werewolves? Aela? Vilkas? Even Skor?" "Yup," he answered simply.

She finished replacing the straps of the greaves and set them on the ground next to her. "Those are ready. See if you can scavenge a pair of trousers off a corpse. Which reminds me- who are the Silver Hand?" "Bad men that don't like werewolves," he replied absentmindedly while searching the recently dead. "They like to hunt and torture our kind." _Hmm… I guess that they are the foes they were referring to. _Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pull on a pair of torn pants that he took off the severed waist of the Redguard. _Finally. I suppose the wolf in him likes to walk around au natural. Well, let him get frostbite there just once and that'll teach him._ She finished restringing the straps on his breastplate and set it down. Farkas sauntered over in the pants that were plainly a few sizes too small for him. Schyre had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing when she noticed they only came down to mid-calf. "Here, let me help you with your armor," she stated, holding his greaves aloft. Piece by piece she buckled him in, securing the new straps in place.

_Well, he didn't die. You'd better apologize for leaving him out there all by himself and getting him into that mess in the first place. No more randomly throwing switches without knowing exactly what they do. Better say sorry for yelling at him too, _she chastised herself quietly. "Hey, Farkas? Sorry I yelled at you earlier." "That's okay," he replied lightheartedly, "I messed up and got in the way. It was my fault." His ready acceptance of her blame stung her a little, making her all the more penitent, "Yeah, but then I turned around and put you in danger too. I just wanted to say sorry. You know, for yelling at you. And for not being there to protect you. You… you deserved better." Farkas shrugged, causing her press her lips together in annoyance- she _was_ trying to finish fastening his breastplate. "Heh. No harm done. Wouldn't want to do this with anyone else anyway. Does this mean I get to yell at you now?" he teased.

"No," she stated dryly, "There- done. Turn around so I can see. Hmm… It's not perfect, but it will work." She noticed the wolf head ornament that adorned his chest plate. _Has a whole new meaning now doesn't it,_ she thought, running her fingers over it. A thought that had been nagging her suddenly came to mind- "Farkas… you can turn into a werewolf at any time, right?" "Yeah. Only once a day though. Too tiring to do it more than that," he answered honestly. "So… When we were completely surrounded by draugr, and you were severely injured, and we were fighting for our lives… Why didn't you change then and take them all out?" Farkas looked flustered for a moment, rubbing the back of his head. He then quickly turned to retrieve his great sword from the pile of dead. "Eyes on the prey, not the horizon. We should keep moving. We still have the draugr to worry about," he answered while heading toward the tunnel. _Uh huh,_ she thought with a smirk, t_hat's what I thought. You forgot._

* * *

"Farkas!" Schyre suddenly whispered, stopping in her tracks at the top of the stairs. "Huh?" he questioned, bumping into her back as she stopped unexpectedly. The dimly lit hall was too narrow and short for them to maintain any form of distance, so he was practically on her tail here. Schyre stared at the rounded stone slab that sat in the middle of her path. There was a swirling inlaid pattern that had faded over time and was covered with a thick layer of dust. Seeing as this single stone was unusually marked, Schyre's automatic assumption was that it wasn't mere decoration, but likely a pressure plate trigger for a trap. Her eyes strained in the darkness trying to pinpoint what would occur if it was activated. She summoned her Flames spell, by now with almost no effort, and used it like a torch to investigate their surroundings. After a few moments, she spied several well-concealed holes built to look like part of the tribal design that scrolled the walls. _Hmm… too small to do any real damage, unless it catches you in the eye or throat. I doubt the ancients would leave much to chance when it came to defending their homes. I bet those darts are laced with poison. Clever._

The stone rested squarely in the center of the stairs and was easily avoidable as long as they skirted around it. _But, why waste the opportunity to educate?_ She extinguished her Flames and looked back at Farkas who was staring absently at the wall. _I wonder if he's ever seen one before. I'd better tell him just in case. Doesn't do me any good to avoid them if he steps on them._ "Hey, Farkas," she said without looking back, "Come here for a second; I want to show you something." "Hmm?" he inquired, peering over her shoulder. Schyre felt claustrophobic as the oversized Nord leaned closer to get a better view. "Oops!" he muttered as his chest plate gently shoved Schyre forward and off balance. She comprehended what was happening all too late. _I'm falling! _her brain supplied uselessly while she plunged forward, directly on path with the pressure plate. Schyre heard the scrape of Farkas's armor as he shot a grasping hand out for her, but he was too slow to stop her tumble. She had just enough time to tuck her limbs in before beginning her rapid roll down the stone stairwell, somersaulting right on top of the pressure plate in the process. "Schyre!" Farkas yelled, beginning to rush down the stairs after her, oblivious to the ominous clicking noises she noted as she rolled over the trap's trigger. "Hey!" she heard Farkas grunt in pain; that could only mean one thing.

A helpful wall at the foot of the stairs abruptly ceased her forward momentum, giving her time to momentarily appreciate all of the bumps she'd acquired during her descent down the roughly cut stone. Forcing her eyes to refocus, she shakily got to her feet. Farkas was crouched halfway down the stairwell, unsuccessfully attempting to dodge the darts that were flying out of the wall. Several of them were sticking out of his arm as he shielded his face, making him look like a poor impression of a porcupine. "Quit it!" he yelled, swatting at them in vain. "Farkas, get off the plate!" Schyre screamed, noticing his foot was directly on top of it. "What?" he responded, obviously unaware of the source of the assault. "The plate, Farkas! The one you are stepping on! Get off it and come towards me!" Thankfully, he retained enough sense to obey and crawled towards her. _The poison is already taking effect. He's getting weaker by the second. I have to get him out of there!_ Getting as close as she dared, she crawled under the barrage and extended her hand to pull him to safety. When he finally grabbed her outstretched hand, she realized how futile the gesture was: she may as well have been trying to drag a fully grown cave bear down the stairs. She pulled with all her might and accomplished little more than the sensation that her shoulder was dislocating. "Schyre…" Farkas muttered, "I don't feel good."

"I know. Those needles are poisoned. Just stay down and it will be over shortly." His eyes unfocused and he began to drool a bit. "Shorry," he mumbled through numb lips. Schyre simply kept her silence, too afraid that she would again scream at him if she dared to say anything at all. _He still hasn't let go of my hand,_ she noticed. The image of them cowering on the floor, holding hands like star-crossed paramours as darts flew over their heads, nearly caused her to break into a fit of hysterical laughter. _What a pair we make! I bet Skor would be so proud to have us representing the Companions._ Farkas groaned. _Oh… don't get sick. Please, please don't vomit on the floor, because I really don't want to be forced to lay in it until the trap stops._ Proving the gods did have some sympathy, Schyre heard the final click as the trap reset itself and the darts stopped flying. With the space overhead clear, she knelt over Farkas and quickly plucked the darts from his flesh, setting them by the handful away at arm's length. With that done, she cradled his head in her lap and fished in her pack for a potion of Cure Poison, grateful for her foresight to craft a few beforehand. She uncorked the bottle and carefully poured its contents down his throat, a little at a time to give him a chance to swallow. Farkas belched and started to get some color back in his cheeks as she set about healing his wounds. _Well, _she thought as she worked, o_n the plus side I will be a master of the Restorative Arts by the end of this trek._

* * *

The coarse hairs on the giant frostbite spider's legs jabbed Schyre in the face as it pinned her down. The sheer weight of the massive leg on her chest was cutting off her oxygen supply and she was beginning to see stars dance in front of the fangs she was trying so desperately to keep away from her head. With her strength failing, she lodged her dagger underneath the creature's mandibles and used the small leverage to keep the venomous incisors at bay. She kicked at its abdomen with no success as her vision began to swim. She vaguely heard Farkas call her name, but it seemed so far away. He had problems of his own, the last she saw- three angry juvenile frostbite spiders were surrounding him as he hacked away at their limbs. The giant above her shifted its weight and brought down another limb, this time squarely onto her stomach. She felt the grip on her dagger loosen as she winced soundlessly in pain. The spider pinned her weakened arm and finally had her completely subdued. _So… this is it,_ she wearily mused as the fangs descended. _Not by a dragon, but masticated by a giant spider. Lovely. Well, from liquid I began, and to liquid I return. I feel bad for the next alchemist that eats the eggs from this spider. Schyre eggs… heh._

Her delirious thoughts were interrupted as Farkas rammed the giant spider from the side, breaking its hold on her. She took the opportunity and rolled away, rapidly sucking in air as she went, her overtaxed muscles begging for more. Using her momentum, she rolled into a crouch and sprang to her feet. Flames spewed from her hands as she set the monster on fire, quickly draining her mana. Farkas cleaved the spider in two with a mighty swing from his sword and it died with a shriek as the nauseating fumes of burnt hair and flesh saturated the air. Schyre grabbed her knees and focused on regaining her breath. "You okay?" he asked, concerned. "Yeah," she panted, "just catching my breath. I swear, I spend half of the time with you breathless, the other half in annoyance." Farkas thought for a moment before a crafty smile spread on his face. "So…" he teased, "you're saying I take your breath away." Schyre gave him a deadpan look, still panting. "Come here," she ordered, pointing to the space next to her. "Why?" he asked, thoroughly enjoying himself. "So I can hit you without walking all the way over there." He simply laughed in response.

"Wow!" Farkas gaped in awe at the open throne room before them. The impressive space was lined with coffins leading to an ascending staircase, creating a focal point that drew the eye to the central platform. Schyre spied the glint of metal off of what could only be a shard of Wuuthrad, neatly perched on the altar. Directly behind it, rising to the cathedral ceiling was a Word Wall, as she had dubbed them. _Well, I know what's in store for ME when I go to pick up that shard._ She cast a sidelong glance at Farkas, who was stubbornly trying to pry open one of the sarcophagi that lined the chamber walls. "Err… Farkas, I don't think…" _That's a good idea._ She was about to say, but as she looked around the room, she realized they were completely surrounded. She shuddered, quickly coming to the conclusion that they would be overwhelmed if draugr leapt from even half of them.

_On second thought…_ Schyre joined Farkas in examining the coffin. "Any luck?" she asked. Farkas shook his head. "Nah. Tighter than a skeever's rear. Can't get it open." "Can you tell if there's a draugr inside?" she questioned. Farkas wrinkled his noise and inhaled deeply around the rim of the tomb. He made a disgusted face and nodded, "Smells like it." _Hmm… maybe some noise will draw them out. I'd rather fight them one at a time than all at once._ "Farkas," she stated, "I have an idea. I want to try and get the draugr to come out one at a time so we can kill them without being rushed." Farkas looked at her like she had grown a second head. "You WANT them to come out?" he asked incredulously. Schyre nodded shrewdly, pointing at the dais and then the coffins standing in a circular pattern around it. "Look at how they are all facing. They are all tilted towards the shard, just waiting for us to go up there." "Ooh," Farkas exclaimed seeing the shard, "A piece of Wuuthrad!"

He started to walk up the stairs toward the shard, but Schyre snagged his arm and pulled him back around to face her. "Yes. BUT, draugr… remember?" Farkas looked around as if suddenly recalling the coffins, then said sheepishly, "Oh." Seeing that he was now paying attention, she stated her plan again, "We need to find a way to provoke them to attack, one at a time." Farkas glanced at the coffins, then back at Schyre and suddenly smiled, "Ohhh, I get it now. You're so smart, Schyre." She snorted in amusement, "We'll see. I still have no idea how to get them out." So, they started simply. Schyre threw a rock at the nearest one and Farkas stood by with his great sword drawn. Nothing happened. She crept forward, knocked on the lid, and fled. …Nothing happened. She set it on fire… Nothing. Farkas was starting to look bored and she was getting frustrated.

With a sigh, Schyre finally sat down on the bottom step and rifled through her bag, seeking her last resort. She pulled out the spell tome she had bought from Farengar Secret-Fire before they departed. She was fairly proficient with the limited Destruction magic she wielded, but the purple volume she held in her hand was much more advanced than what she had worked with before. A burst of fire was stamped into the front cover of the Fire Rune Tome. _Well, this could either work brilliantly, or I could blow us both up._ Taking a deep breath she opened the book and began to read the mystical letters inside. Much like the word wall, the inscription imprinted itself in her brain, imbuing her with the knowledge of how to cast the deadly rune. _I wonder if it's based on the same magic, _she pondered as the book, its knowledge now spent, disintegrated into dust and fell through her fingers.

Brushing her hands off on her pants, she stood and faced the nearest tomb and raised her hand. "Farkas," she called to her companion. He had long ago lost interest in the coffins and was busy sharpening his sword with a whetstone. At the sound of his name, he looked up and equipped his freshly sharpened blade, eager to fight. "Um… You may want to stand back," she said as he closed in towards the coffin. He gave her a confused look and took a few steps back. "A little bit more," she said, pointing to what she hoped was a safe spot should her spell misfire- or worse, backfire. Farkas stomped to the place she indicated, looking a bit impatient as he hefted his sword.

Hoping that this wasn't a huge mistake, she drew on the power within her and cast the rune onto the sarcophagus. She felt the huge drain of all of her mana being poured into the spell as it left her fingertips. It sent her head reeling and made her feel completely spent. The spell arced forward and latched itself on the coffin, sizzling and glowing like hot coals as the runic design etched onto the surface of the crypt. After a tense moment, a resounding crack pierced the silence in the room and the tomb was engulfed in flames. A terrible din filled the air as the draugr inside began to claw its way out through a wall of flame. With a mighty kick, the draugr Scourge sent the coffin lid flying as it stepped out into the hall. Schyre sidestepped the stone lid and faced the draugr. With flames still licking at its skull and its eyes alight with malevolence, the creature lumbered towards Schyre. "Dir Volaan!" it screamed. "'Die quickly'?" she asked smugly. "If that's what you want, so be it."

Schyre stood in casual repose with an impish smirk on as Farkas' blade cleaved the undead warrior in two. The draugr fell at her feet with a clatter of bones, its outreached hand still grasping for her. "Hah!" Schyre exclaimed in excitement as Farkas sheathed his blade. She grabbed him by the arms and danced around in her excitement. "It worked!" she yelled jubilantly. Farkas just grinned and spun her around, picking her up by the waist at the last of the turn and lifted her in the air as if she weighed nothing. She shrieked in a mixture of delight and nervousness as he gently tossed her in the air once before putting her down. They stood there, grinning at each other for a moment: his hands on her waist as she rested her palms on his muscular arms. _I guess we make a pretty good team once we figure things out. We kind of compliment each other in a weird way. He's the brawn and I'm the brains._

She snickered at the thought, prompting Farkas to ask, "What's so funny?" Schyre simply shook her head, lightly prying his fingers off her waist, "Nothing. Everything. Just thinking that we work well together. I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone watch my back. I've been alone for longer than I'd like to admit." Farkas stopped her from removing the last of his fingers and took her delicate hand in his massive one. His face held his typical earnest, open grin. "You're not alone anymore, Shield Sister," he said. "You're family now. I'll always watch your back." _Family._ Hearing the word brought to surface a whirlwind of emotions, from regret and sorrow to joy and happiness. She looked away as she fought back tears. _Maybe… Maybe I've finally found where I belong._ She disengaged her hand from his, quickly wiping away one traitorous tear as she turned from him. "Well," she stated surveying all the tombs, "we've got a lot of work to do. Best get to it."

* * *

It had been slow going mainly because Schyre had to recuperate from the severe mana drain every time she cast the Fire Rune. After killing more than a dozen draugr, the floor was so littered with their bodies they had to tread carefully to avoid tripping. When Schyre finally cast the spell on the last tomb surrounding the dais, she was rewarded with no draugr bursting out. _There were less than I thought, but I'm still glad we did it this way._ With all their enemies dispatched, Schyre decided it was best to send Farkas to retrieve the shard since she didn't want to get anywhere near the Word Wall. The incessant chanting that only she could seem to hear was driving her nuts and by now she was eager to leave this place. Farkas approached the dais and hesitated. He turned to Schyre, who was waiting impatiently by. "Are you sure you want me to get it? It really should be your honor." Schyre shook her head decisively. _Believe me, that's one honor I could do without._ "All yours," she said with a cool smile.

Grinning like a kid with a taffy treat, Farkas picked up the piece of the blade and held it aloft. "Wow," he whispered in awe, causing Schyre to suppress a giggle. _If only everyone could find wonder in such small things in life,_ she reflected with slight melancholy. Her thoughts were interrupted by a large THUD coming from the side of the wall. Whirling in expectation of more danger, she turned just in time to witness a large stone slab falling away from a tomb, exposing a new path behind. _Oh! Well, that's convenient. I was wondering how we were going to get out of here. I thought we'd have to backtrack through that entire labyrinth all over again. Who knows how long that would have taken. Speaking- well, THINKING of time…_ It dawned on her that she had no idea how long they had been spelunking in the dark. It had felt like days, but with no sunlight in the depths, Schyre could only guess how much time had passed since they had last seen the surface. Suddenly, the shadows and tons of rock overhead seemed all the more crushing, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this place.

"Get the soul gems, Farkas. I want to go home." _Home. How strange that I already consider Jorrvaskr my home. Home- with my Family._ She watched Farkas as he gathered up the purple crystals that were scattered on the dais. He then approached her and handed them to her, along with the shard. The fragment was surprisingly heavy in her hand, and she measured its weight in more ways than one. Farkas placed his hand gently on her arm. "You did well," he stated. "I'm proud to call you my Shield Sister." She smiled, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity of his tone. "As am I, Farkas. Let's go home." Exiting the tomb through the newly opened escape passage, Schyre gladly turned her back on the darkness and death and walked away as the chanting ghostly voices faded to silence.


End file.
